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TIFFANY'S 



Diamonds of Poetry and Prose, 



COMPRISING 



THE MOST UNIQUE, TOUCHING, PITHY, AND BEAUTIFUL 
LITERARY TREASURES. 



ICLEfiANTU mUlTSTHATED. 




Among the Brilliant Men and Women of Genius whose Very Choicest Productions enrich these 

pages are Shakespeare, Milton, Moore, Burns, Bryant, Byron, Shelley, Scott, Campbell, 

Hood, Wordsworth, Longfellow, Tennyson, Holmes, Hemans, Whittier, Saxe, 

Sigourney, Dickens, Lover, Everett, Bret Harte, Franklin, Macaulay, 

and about Two Hundred other Authors of established Fame. 



MANY RARE AND EXCELLENT PIECES OF PECULIAR MERIT 
WHOSE AUTHORSHIP IS UNKNOWN 

are included, 



MAKING A WONDERFULLY RICH 



Treasury for the Home Circle. 



• 



Rev, O. H. TIFFANY, 13. D., Editor. 



JUL 23 1887 . 



PHILADELPHIA: 
HUBBARD BROTHERS, Publishers. 



\ 



Ytt to !*■ 
■A. 



) 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1887, by 

Hubbard Brothers, 

in the Office oi the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 



s 




Publkhepg' Prefaee. 



-5*r- 



)N preparing "Diamonds of Poetry and Prose," the Publishers have co- 
operated heartily with the Editor in his effort to produce a book of 
unequalled excellence. He has gathered the "apples of gold;" they 
have set them in " pictures of silver." 

Particular attention has been given to every detail of the pub- 
lication. Paper has been prepared expressly for this volume. Its texture is 
firm and durable; its surface is elegantly finished; and its tone is delicate 
and pleasing to the eye. 

Typographical effects have been carefully studied at every point, the aim 
being to secure beauty in the page, with the greatest possible comfort to the 
reader. In the matter of binding, materials have been selected with reference 
to durability and elegant appearance, while the workmanship is in the best 

style of the art. 

9 



10 publishers' preface. 



Illustrative art has been taxed to the utmost in the adornment of the 
book, and in its pictorial embellishment. At greatly increased editorial and 
pecuniary expense, the illustrations are all made to elucidate the various poems 
and prose pieces of the text. They form an artistic commentary on the choice 
subject-matter, and give a charming and picturesque effect to the entire work. 

In addition to the numerous full-page illustrations, and those of smaller 
size, there is a superb steel-plate Frontispiece of Longfellow, the world- 
renowned and beloved American poet. 

Among the distinguished artists whose pictorial gems adorn these pages, 
are Bensell, Darley, Grey, Hill, Hennessey, Heine, Herrick, Kensett, Linton, 
Macdonough, McEntee, Moran, Parsons, Smillie, Sooy, Schell, Sweeney (Boz.), 
and many others equally skillful. 

In short, whatever care and generous expenditure has been able to do to 
secure completeness and elegance, has been done in this volume, and it is now 
presented to the consideration of an appreciative public. 





INDEX OF AUTHORS. 

( PROSE) 



A.DELEB, Max, (Charles Heber Clarke). 

Catching the Morning Train . . 61 

Andeesen, Hans Cheistian. 

The Little Match Girl 156 

Anonymous. 

The Generous Soldier Saved . . 91 

Jimmy Butler and the Owl . . . 101 

Good-night Papa, . 118 

Too Late for the Train 125 

Yankee and the Dutchman's Dog. 131 

United in Death 137 

De Pint wid Old Pete ..... 143 

Jenkins goes to a Picnic .... 163 

Pledge with Wine . . . . . . 166 

The Old Wife's Kiss ...... 244 

The Last Station 271 

Schooling a Husband 313 

Lord Dundreary at Brighton . . 363 

Regulus to the Roman Senate . . 370 

Hypochondriac ........ 403 

Mariner's description of Piano . 495 



A Husband's Experience in Cook 

ing 519 

The Life of a Child Fairy ... 529 

Selling a Coat ........ 585 

My Mother's Bible ...... 311 

The Noble Revenge 624 

The Grotto of Antiparos .... 636 

Fingal's Cave 648 

Winter Sports 667 

Bailey, J. M., (Danbury News Man). 

Mr. Stiver's Horse ...... 112 

Sewing on a Button ...... "169 

Baxtee, Richaed. 

The Rest of the Just 545 

Beechee, Heney Waed. 

'Biah Cathcart's Proposal. . . . 293 

Death of President Lincoln . . . 598 

Loss of the Arctic ....... 683 

Beekley, Bishop Geoege. 

Industry the Source of Wealth . 180 
15 



16 



AUTHORS OF PROSE. 



Billings, Josh, (Henry W. Shaw). 

Manifest Destiny 457 

Beown, Chaeles F., (Artemus Ward). 

Artemus Ward at the Tomb of 

Shakespeare ....... 152 

Artemus Ward visits the Shakers 420 
Bueke, Edmund. 

The Order of Nobility ..... 227 

On the Death of his Son . . . . 231 
Bunyan, John. 

The Golden City . . . . . . . 303 

Bakee, Edwaed Dickinson. 

Worse than Civil War ..... 516 

Chapin, Rev. Dr. Edwin Hubbell. 

The Ballot-Box ........ 617 

Choate, Rufus. 

The Birth-day of Washington . 444 
Clemens, Samuel L., (Mark Twain). 

Uncle DanTs Apparition and 

Prayer 121 

European Guides 211 

Jim Smiley's Frog ...... 510 

Buck Fanshaw's Funeral . . „ . 671 
Cozzens, Feedeeick S. 

The Dumb-Waiter ....... 279 

Ceolt, Geoege. 

Constantius and the Lion . . . 239 
Cumming, Rev. John, D. D. 

Voices of the Dead ...... 298 

Cuetis, Geoege William. 

Ideas the Life of a People . . . 440 

Dickens, Chaeles. 

Mr. Pickwick in a Dilemma . . 71 

Death of Little Joe 134 

The Drunkard's Death ..... 189 

Death of Little Nell 256 

Pip's Fight 287 

Recollections of my Christmas 

Tree 307 

A Child's Dream of a Star . . . 345 
The Pauper's Funeral ..... 365 
Mr. Pickwick in the Wrong Room 375 
Nicholas Nickleby leaves Dothe- 

boys' Hall ,399 

Sam Weller's Valentine. .... 532 

Diseaeli, Benjamin. 

T'he Hebrew Race 67 

Jerusalem by Moonlight .... 568 



De Quincet, Thomas. 

Execution of Joan of Arc. . . „ 145 

DOUGHEETY, DANIEL. 

Pulpit Oratory ........ 81 

Dwight, Timothy. 

The Notch of the White Moun- 
tains „ . „ . 423 

Emmet, Robeet. 

A Patriot's Last Appeal .... 546 

Emeeson, Ralph Waldo. 

Self-Reliance ......... 607 

Eveeett, Edwaed, Hon. LL.D. 

Last Hours of Webster .... 153 

Morning 355 

The Indian to the Settler .... 463 

The Pilgrim Fathers 524 

The Clock-work of the Skies . . 630 

Feanklin, Benjamin. 

Arrival in Philadelphia. .... 657 
Feoude, James Anthony. 

The Coronation of Anne Boleyn 194 

Gaefield, James A., President. 

Golden Gems (Selected from Ora- 
tions and Writings) .... 640 
Geeenwood, Feancis W. P. 

Poetry and Mystery of the Sea . 175 
Gough, John B. 

Buying Gape-seed 57. 

What is a Minority 270 



Halibueton, Thomas C 

Soft Sawder and Human Natur. 646 
Heevey, James. 

Meditation at an Infant's Tomb 321 
Hawthoene, Nathaniel. 

Sights from a Steeple ..... 470 
Holland, Josiah Gilbeet. 

Tramp, Tramp, Tramp 201 

Holmes, Olivee Wendell. 

The Front and Side Doors ... 43 

Sea-shore and Mountains . . . . 415 
Howitt, Mes. Maey. 

Mountains .......... 427 

Hugo, Victoe. 

Caught in the Quicksand .... 223 

The Gamin .......... 275 

Rome and Carthage ...... 350 



AUTHORS OF PROSE. 



17 



Irving, Edward. 

David, King of Israel . . . . . 486 

Irving, Washington. 

Baltus Van Tassel's Farm ... 49 
Sorrow for the Dead ...... 88 

Rural Life in England 284 

A Time of Unexampled Prosperity 448 
The Organ of Westminster Abbey 474 

Sights on the Sea 574 

The Tombs of Westminster . . 621 

Jefferson, Thomas. 

The Character of Washington . 559 

Jerrold, Douglas. 

Winter 55 

Mrs. Caudle needs Spring Clothing 478 
Mrs. Caudle on Shirt Buttons . . 499 

Jones, J. William. 

The Responsive Chord 614 

Kane, Elisha Kent. 

Formation of Icebergs .... - 627 
Arctic Life . . . . 652 

Kelly, Rev. William V. 

Sunrise at Sea . , . .... . . 337 

Lamartine. 

Execution of Madame Roland . . 686 
Landor, Walter Savage. 

The Genius of Milton . . . . . 487 
Lincoln, Abraham. 

Dedication at Gettysburg . ; . . 141 

Retribution 162 

Macaulay, Thomas Babington. 

The Puritans 182 

Milton. . . . 232 

Images ........... 264 

Tacitus ........... 390 

Massillon, Jean Baptiste. 

Immortality 207 

MacLean, Mrs. Letitia E. 

The Ruined Cottage 96 

Milton, John. 

The Freedom of the Press ... 172 

Truth . 198 

Moseley, Litchfield 

The Charity Dinner 326 

Making Love in a Balloon . . . 590 

Park, Mungo. 

African Hospitality 66 

Parker, Theodore. 

The Beauty of Youth ... .697 



Phillips, Wendell. 

Political Agitation 506 

Poe, Edgar A. 

The Domain of Arnheim .... 433 
Poole, John. 

Old Coaching Days 579 

Porter, Noah. 

Advice to Young Men 598 

Prime, William C. 

Morality of Angling .... 39 

Habits of Trout 643 

Prentiss, S. S. 

New England. . , 105 

Purchas, Samuel. 

Praise of the Sea 75 

Richter, Jean Paul. 

The Two Roads 109 

Riddle, Mrs. J. H. 

The Ghosts of Long Ago .... 99 
Russell, William H. 

The Light Brigade at Balaklava 58 
Ruskin, John. 

Improving on Nature . . . . ". 503 

Book Buyers 660 

Selected. 

Gathered Gold Dust 48 

Diamond Dust 521 

Shelley, Percy Bysshe. 

The Divinity of Poetry . . . . 394 
Shillaber, B. P., (Mrs. Partington.) 

Mouse Hunting 217 

Sprague, William B. 

Voltaire and Wilberforce . . . 661 
Stanley, Arthur Penrhyn. 

Children of the Desert 385 

Stowe, Mrs. Harriet Beecher. 

Zeph Higgins' Confession . . . 248 

The Little Evangelist 359 

Sumner, Charles. 

Progress of Humanity ..... 453 
Scott, Sir Walter. 

Rebecca Describes the Siege ) . . 539 

Talmage, Rev. T. De Witt, D. D. 

Dress Reform 550 

Mother's Vacant Chair .... 555 

Grandmother's Spectacles .... 675 

Shooting Porpoises 704 



18 



AUTHORS OF PROSE. 



Taeson, Chaeles. 

Scene at Niagara ........ 234 

Taylor, Jeeemy. 

Useful Studies ......... 292 

Waenee, Chaeles Dudley. 

Uncle Dan'l's Apparition and Prayer 121 

The Coming of Thanksgiving . . . 148 

Our Debt to Irving 563 

Washington, Geoege. 

Address to his Troops 408 

Inaugural Address „ 603 

Webstee, Daniel. 

Crime Self-Revealed 632 



Whitchee, Feances Miriam. 




The Widow Bedott's Poetry 


. . 82 


Whitney, Mes. Adeline D. T 




The Little Rid Hin . . « . 


482 


Whipple, Edwin P. 




The Power of Words. . . , 


. . 665 


Wiet, William. 




The Blind Preacher .... 


. . 186 


Wiley, Chaeles A. 




Caught in the Maelstrom . 


. . 412 


Wylie, J. A. 




Defence of Pra Del Tor . . 


. . 690 





INDEX OF AUTHORS. 

(POETRY) 



Adams, Charles F. 

The Puzzled Dutchman 151 

Pat's Criticism 154 

The Little Conqueror . . . . . 165 

Der Drummer 297 

Hans and Fritz ........ 311 

Leedle Yawcob Strauss. .... 418 

Addison, Joseph. 

Cato on Immortality 391 

Akers, Elizabeth. 

Rock me to Sleep, Mother . . . 274 

Alexander, Mrs. C. F. 

The Burial of Moses 289 

Alger, H., Jr. 

John Maynard 406 

Alger, William P., (Translator). 

The Sufi Saint 284 

The Parting Lovers 356 

Altbnburg, Michael. 

Battle Song of Gustavus Adol- 

phus 430 

Anacreon. 

The Grasshopper King 42 



Anonymous. 

Shall we know each other there ? 69 

Song of the Decanter 87 

The Farmer and the Counsellor . 100 

Charley's Opinion of the Baby . 120 

Socrates Snooks 124 

Papa's Letter .... . . 168 

Betty and the Bear 171 

Love lightens Labor ..... 182 

" Love me little Love me long ". 191 

Scatter the Germs of the Beautiful 195 



Old School Punishment 
The Poor Indian . 
Two Little Kittens 
Motherhood . . . 
Roll on thou Sun . 
Twenty Years Ago 
The Nation's Dead 
Call me not Dead . 
The Sufi Saint . . 
Putting up o' the Stove 
The Engineer's Story 
The Baggage Fiend . 



209 
227 
229 
229 
234 
261 
266 
269 
284 
290 
295 
300 



19 



20 



AUTHORS OF POEMS. 



The Song of the Forge ... . 304 

Civil War 318 

Go feel what I have felt . . . . 3 IS 

Paddy's Excelsior ...... 323 

Chinese Excelsior 324 

Father Time's Changeling . . . 324 

Prayers of Children 329 

Now I lay me down to sleep . . 332 

The Frenchman and the Rats . 335 

The Parting Lovers . ..... 356 

Annie Laurie 385 

A Kiss at the Door 401 

Clerical Wit . 401 

Lines on a Skeleton 417 

Song of the Stormy Petrel . . . 440 

Paying her Way 452 

The Chemist to his Love . . . . 469 

No Sects in Heaven ...... 500 

Evening brings us Home . . . 502 

John Jankin's Sermon .... 543 

The Laugh of a Child . . . . . 549 

Dot Lambs what Mary Haf Got 567 

St. John the Aged ....... 575 

" The Penny ye meant to Gi'e." 581 

The Mystic Weaver 587 

Mrs. Lofty and I . 596 

Our Skater Belle . 597 

Searching for the Slain .... 602 

The True Temple 615 

The Drummer Boy ...... 616 

Two Views 625 

Our Lambs 629 

Dorothy Sullivan 685 

The Eggs and the Horses .... 694 

The Maple Tree ........ 699 

A Woman's Love . . . . . . . 702 

A Mother's Love ....... 703 

Arkwright, Peleg. 

Poor Little Joe 358 

Allingham, William. 

The Fairies 515 

Arnold, Edwin, (Translator). 

Call me not Dead ....... 269 

Arnold, George. 

The Jolly Old Pedagogue, ... 258 

A-Ytoune, William E. 

The Buried Flower ...*.. 272 



Bache, Anna. 

The Quilting . 



56 



Barnard, Lady Anne. 

Auld Robin Gray ....... 173 

Beattie, James. 

The Hermit ......... 595 

Law 679 

Bell, Chas. A. 

Tim Twinkleton'p '„ vrins ... 106 
Bernard De Morlaix. 

- The Celestial Country ..... 650 

BlCKERSTETH, EDWARD. 

The Ministry of Jesus ..... 703 
Blake, William. 

The Tiger . 357 

Boker, George H. 

Battle of Lookout Mountain , . 570 

BONAR, HORATIUS. 

Life from Death. ....... 170 

Beyond the Smiling and the 

Weeping , 268 

Brainard, Mary G. 

He Knows 577 

Brooks, Charles T., (Translator). 

Winter Song 596 

Browning, Elizabeth Barrett. 

Sonnet from the Portuguese . . 370 

A Portrait . • . 388 

The Cry of the Children .... 699 

Brown, Emma Alice. 

Measuring the Baby ..... 520 

Bryant, Wm. Cullen. 

Forest Hymn 37 

Waiting by- the Gate 77 

Song of Marion's Men 133 

Thanatopsis , „ . . 214 

" Blessed are they that Mourn ". 242 

The Death of the Flowers ... 349 

Robert of Lincoln 387 

The Murdered Traveler .... 402 

To a Water Fowl ....... 526 

The Crowded Streets ..... 567 

God in the Seas , 694 

Buchanan, Robert. 

Nell. 393 

Bungay, George William. 

The Creeds of the Bells , ... 309 

Burns, Robert. 

Highland Mary. ....... 262 

Duncan Gray cam' here to woo. 336 

John Anderson. My Jo 466 



AUTHORS OF POEMS. 



21 



Byron, Lord George Gordon. 

The Orient 224 

The Sea 262 

The Destruction of Sennacherib 296 

His Latest Verses 484 

Campbell, Thomas. 

Lord Ullin's Daughter 551 

The Soldier's Dream 578 

Canning, George. 

The Needy Knife-Grinder ... 228 

Cary, Phoebe. 

Kate Ketchem 461 

Dreams and Realities 485 

Cary, Alice. 

My Creed 266 

Carleton, Will. M. 

Gone with a handsomer Man . . 139 

Goin' Home To-day 265 

Betsy and I are out 381 

Betsey Destroys the Paper . . . 383 

The New Church Organ .... 588 

Over the Hills to the Poor-House 679 

Out of the Old House, Nancy . . 697 

Case, Phila H. 

Nobody's Child ......... 302 

Catlin, George L. 

The Fire-Bell's Story 554 

Bread on the Waters ..... 612 

Chalkhill, John, (Isaak Walton). 

The Angler 205 

ClBBER, COLLEY. 

The Blind Boy 365 

Cleveland, E. H. J. 

Shibboleth 583 

Clough, Arthur Hugh. 

As Ships Becalmed 422 

COATES, REYNELL. 

The Gambler's Wife 688 

Cobb, Henry N. 

Father, Take my Hand .... 333 

The Gracious Answer 334 

Collins, William. 

Sleep of the Brave ...... 605 

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. 

Sunrise in Valley of Chamounix 663 
Coles, Abraham, (Translator). 

Dies Irae . 456 

Stabat Mater 504 

Cook, Eliza. 

The Old Arm-Chair .... .285 



Cooke, Philip P. 

Florence Vane 281 

Coolidge, Susan. 

When 450 

Cornwall, Barry, (Bryan W. Procter). 

The Blood Horse 42 

The Poet's Song to his Wife . . 68 

The Sea 362 

The Owl 422 

The Stormy Petrel ...... 439 

Cranch, Christopher Pearse. 

By the Shore of the River ... 517 

Cunningham, Allan. 

A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea 587 

Cutter, George W. 

The Miser 226 

Dana, Richard Henry. 

The Pleasure. Boat ...,.., 60 
Derzhavin, Gabriel Romanovitch. 

God 537 

Dobell, Sydney. 

How's my Boy ? . . 353 

Dodge, Mrs. Mary Mapes. 

Learning to Pray 331 

The Minuet 340 

Drake, Joseph Rodman. 

The American Flag ...... 467 

Donnelly, Eleanor C. 

Vision of Monk Gabriel .... 659 
Dufferin, Lady. 

Lament of the Irish Emigrant . 62 
Duryea, Rev. William E. 

A Song for Hearth and Home . 548 

Eager, Cora M. 

The Ruined Merchant 197 

Eastman, Charles Gamage. 

A Snow-Storm 409 

Effie, Aunt. 

The Dove Cote 232 

Emerson, Ralph Waldo. 

The Snow-Storm. ....... 63 

Mountain and Squirrel .... 590 

Fawcett, Edgar. 

A Prayer for my Little One. . - 682 
Fields, James T. 

The Tempest ......... 208 

Ford, Mary A. 

A Hundred Years from Now . . 187 



22 



AUTHORS OF POEMS. 



Freiligrath, Ferdinand. 

The Lion's Ride 45o 

Freneau, Philip. 

Indian Death Song 518 

Gage, Mrs. F. D. 

The Housekeeper's Soliloquy. . 78 
Gardette, C. D. 

The Fire-Fiend 160 

Garrett, Edward. 

The Unbolted Door 129 

Gerot, Paul. 

The Children's Church 692 

Gilman, Caroline. 

The American Boy 268 

Goethe, Johann Wolfgang. 

The Soul of Eloquence 97 

The Church Window 358 

Goddard, Julia. 

Hide and Seek 454 

Goodrich, Orrin . 

Borrioboola Gha 525 

Grahame, James, Rev. 

The Sabbath ' 610 

Gray, Thomas. 

Elegy in a Country Church- Yard. 203 

Hart, T. B. 

The Reveille 618 

Harte, Francis Bret. 

Miss Edith helps things Along . 254 

Fate 258 

Jim 339 

Dow's Flat 426 

Bill Mason's Bride 518 

Havergal, Frances Ridley. 

The Lull of Eternity 626 

Hay, John. 

The Law of Death 547 

Heine, Heinrich. 

The Fisher's Cottage .'..;. 253 

Hemans, Felicia Dorothea. 

The Homes of England 64 

Landing of the Pilgrims .... 205 

The Meeting of the Ships ... 230 

Hour of Death ........ 674 

Henderson, William H. 

" No more Sea." 644 

Heywood, Thomas. 

Song of Birds 374 

Holland, Josiah Gilbert. 

Cradle Song 277 

Gradatim . . 558 

Where Shall Baby's Dimple Be? 689 



Holmes, C. E. L. 

You put no Flowers on my Papa's 

Grave . 192 

Holmes, Oliver Wendell. 

The wonderful One-hose Shay . 69 

Under the Violets 267 

Union and Liberty 273 

A Tailor's Poem on Evening . . 445 

Bill and Joe 458 

The Last Leaf 542 

Hood, Thomas. 

The Death-Bed 199 

The Comet 260 

I Remember 273 

The Song of the Shirt ..... 282 

The Bridge of Sighs 354 

Ruth 367 

Faithless Nelly Gray 405 

No . 506 

Nocturnal Sketch.. 609 

Holty, Ludwig. 

Winter Song 596 

Hoyt, Ralph. 

Old 431 

Hugo, Victor. 

TheDjinns 468 

Hunt, Leigh. 

Abou Ben Adhem 225 

Ingelow, Jean. 

When Sparrows Build 471 

Seven Times Two 619 

Jones, J. A. 

The Gladiator 565 

Jones, Sir William. 

What Constitutes a State? . . . 367 

Key, Francis Scott. 

The Star-Spangled Banner . . . 466 
King, Henry. 

Life 642 

Kingsley, Charles. 

The Lost Doll. ........ 341 

The Sands o' Dee 392 

The Merry Lark 463 

Knox, William. 

Why should the Spirit of mortal 

be Proud ? 411 

Korner, Charles Theodore. 

Sword Song 312 

Lampertius. 

A German Trust Song 589 



AUTHORS OF POEMS. 



23 



Leighton, Robert. 

John and Tibbie Davison's Dispute 572 
Leland, Chaeles G., (Translator). 

The Fisher's Cottage ...... 253 

Levee, Chaeles James. 

Widow Malone 375 

LONGFELLOW, HENEY WADSWOETH. 

The Old Clock on the Stairs. . . 40 

The Bridge 51 

The Rainy Day . . 88 

Embarkation of the Exiles. . . 90 

The Silent River 220 

A Psalm of Life 241 

Maidenhood 246 

Resignation 251 

Excelsior 322 

Hiawatha's Journey 342 

Hiawatha's Wooing 344 

Hiawatha's Return 345 

The Launching of the Ship. . . 389 

The Arsenal at Springfield . . . 424 

God's Acre 498 

Evangeline on the Prairie. . . . 505 

Day-dawn . 549 

The Children's Hour 656 

The Chamber Over the Gate . . 693 

I The Day is Done ....... 706 

Lovee, Samuel. 

The Angel's Whisper ..... 277 

Lowell, James Russell. 

The First Snow-fall 137 

The Rose 669 

Lowey, Rev. Robeet, D. D. 

I Love the Morning Sunshine . . 275 

Dust on her Bible 666 

Lynn, Ethel. 

Why? 655 

Lytton, Loed Edwabd Bulweb. 

There is no Death 451 

Macdonald, Geoege. 

Baby , 82 

Mackay, Chaeles. 

Little and Great 441 

Cleon and 1 597 

Clear the Way . 623 

Mignonette, May. 

Over the Hills from Poor-House . 681 

Millee, Joaquin. 

Kit Carson's Ride . 472 

2 



Millee, William E. 

Wounded. .......... 188 

Milman, Heney Haet.. 

Jewish Hymn in Jerusalem. . • 502 

MlLNES, RlCHAED MoNCKTON. 

London Churches ,..•••. 237 

The Brook Side. ....... 247 

Mitchell, William. 

The Palace o' the King, , ... 286 

M'Callum, D. C. 

The Water-Mill , ....... 200 

M'Keevee. Haeeiet B. 

The Moravian Requiem . , . . 225 

Snow-flakes. ...... v . . 243 

MONTGOMEEY, JAMES. 

My Country ......... 179 

Servant of God, well done . , - 254 

Night , . 301 

The Pelican ......... 446 

Mooee, Thomas. 

The Home of Peace ...... 337 

The Meeting of the Waters. . . 484 

The Light-House ....... 513 

Echoes . 645 

Moeeis, Geoege P. 

My Mother's Bible 523 

Moulteie, John. 

The Three Sons . . 528 

Muhlenbeeg, Rev. William A., D.D. 

I would not live alway. .... 353 

Mulock, Dinah Maeia. 

Buried To-day ........ 243 

Munfobd, William. 

To a Friend in Affliction .... 689 

Naiene, Lady Caeolina. 

The Land o' the Leal . . , . . 421 

Noeton, Caeoline E. 

Bingen on the Rhine. ..... 86 

The King of Denmark's Ride. . 378 

O'Beien, Fitz James. 

The Cave of Silver ...... 362 

Osgood, Feances S. 

Labor is Worship 619 

Palmee, John W. 

For Charlie's Sake. ...... 641 

Payne, John Howaed. 

Home, Sweet Home ...... 628 



24 



/ 



AUTHORS OF POEMS. 



Pebcival, James Gates. 

The Coral Grove 678 

Pettee, Geoege W. 

Sleighing Song ........ 338 

Pieepont, John". 

Not on the Battle-field. .... 531 

Poe s Edgae Allen, 

The Raven t •. . 158 

Annabel Lee . 553 

The Bells .......... 593 

Pollaed, Josephine. 

The First Party 414 

Pbentiss, E. 

The Mystery of Life in Christ . 233 

Peeston, Maegaeet J. 

The Hero of the Commune . . . 278 

Feiest, Nancy Amelia Woodbuey. 

Over the River 142 

Peoctoe, Adelaide Anne. 

A Legend of Bregenz 52 

A First Sorrow ........ 179 

A Woman's Question 356 

Per Pacem ad Lucem 553 

The Angel's Story. 637 

Peout, Fathee. 

The Bells of Shandon. ..... 573 

Raleigh, Sie Waltee. 

The Nymph's Reply to the Shep- 
herd ........... 381 

Ralph, Rev. W. S. 

Whistling in Heaven 116 

Raymond, Rossitee W. 

Ramblings in Greece ...... 696 

Read, Thomas Buchanan. 

Drifting 210 

Sheridan's Ride. ....... 536 

The Closing Scene. 556 

Robbins, Alice. 

Left Alone at Eighty ..... 372 
Joe ....... . 514 

ROSENGAETEN. 

Through Trials . 658 

Baxe, John Godfeey. 

American Aristocracy 71 

Song of Saratoga . 95 

The Cockney ......... 193 

Early Rising ......... 341 

Blind Men and the Elephant . . 398 

I'm Growing Old ...... . 438 



Scott, Sie Waltee. 

Patriotism 233 

Selected. 

Life (From Thirty-eight authors). 496 

Shakespeaee, William. 

Hark, hark the Lark ..... 319 

Airy Nothings 325 

Mercy 379 

Quarrel of Brutus and Cassius . 476 

Selected Gems 634 

Shelley, Peecy Bysshe. 

To Night .......... 242 

The Cloud .......... 437 

The Sun is Warm, the Sky . . . 601 

Shillabee, B. P., (Mrs. Partington.) 

My Childhood's Home .... 196 

SlGOUENEY, MES. LyDIA HUNTLEY. 

The Coral Insect . 146 

The Bell of " The Atlantic " . . 184 

Niagara ........... 647 

Smith, Dextee. 

Ring the Bell Softy 282 

Smith, Maey Riley. 

Sometime 373 

Smith, James. 

The Soldier's Pardon 236 

Smith, Hoeace. 

The Gouty Merchant ..... 216 

Hymn to the Flowers . . . • . 255 
Smith, Seba. 

The Mother in the Snow-Storm 
Snow, Sophia P. 

Annie and Willie's Prayer . 
Southey, Mes. Caeoline Bowles. 

The Pauper's Death-Bed . . . 
Southey, Robeet. 

The Cataract of Lodore 

The Ebb-Tide .... 
Spensee, Edmund. 

The Ministry of Angels 
Spoonee, A. C. 

Old Times and New 
Speague, Chaeles 

I See Thee Still . . . 
Stedman, Edmund Claeence 

The Door-Step . . . 
Stoddaet, William 0. 

The Deacon's Prayer 
Stoddaed, Richaed Heney. 

Wind and Ram ..... o . 414 

Funeral of Lincoln ...... 600 



513 

395 

216 

248 
418 

702 

429 

144 



320 



AUTHORS OF POEMS. 


25 


Story, Robert. 




White, Henry Kirke. 




The Whistle 


. 283 


The Star of Bethlehem . . . . 


469 


Suckling, Sir John, 




White, Mrs. Sallie J. 




The Bride . . . . . . . . . 


. 642 


Little Margery ........ 


330 


Swinburne, Algernon Charles. 




Whitcher, Frances Miriam. 




Kissing her Hair ...... 


, 52 


Widow Bedott to Elder Sniffles . 


548 


Taylor, Benjamin F. 




Whittier, John Greenleaf. 




The River Time ...... 


. . 64 


Cobbler Keezar's Vision . . . . 


44 


The Old Village Choir .... 


. 677 


Skipper Ireson's Ride .'.... 


79 


Taylor, Bayard. 




Trust . 


230 


The Quaker Widow ..... 


. 110 


Barbara Frietchie ....... 


317 


Taylor, Jefferys. 




Benedicite . 


350 


The Milkmaid ....... 


. 199 


The Poet's Reward 


402 


Tennyson, Alfred. 




The Vaudois Teacher ..... 


405 


Charge of the Light Brigade . 


. 59 


The Barefoot Boy ...... 


416' 


Song of the Brook ..... 


. 222 


Maud Muller . 


459 


Enoch Arden at the Window . 


. 252 


Mabel Martin 


488 


Death of the Old Year .... 
Break, Break, Break .... 

The Eagle 8 . 

New Year's Eve ....„.„ 


. 316 
. 348 
. 364 
. 387 


The Ranger 

Mary Garvin ......... 

The River Path 


507 
560 
566 


The Bugle ......... 


. 436 


My Playmate 


582 


The Day Dream ...... 


. 480 


The Countess 


605 


Lady Clare. ........ 


. 631 


The Changeling 


654 


Thomas of Celano. 




Wilcox, Carlos. 




Dies Ira ......... , 


e 456 


Doing Good True Happiness . . 


219 


Teurlow, Lord, (Edward Hovel). 




Willis, Nathaniel Parker. 




The Patient Stork ..... 


. 450 


David's Lament for Absalom . . 


305 


Trowbridge, John Townsend. 




The Dying Alchemist 


497 


The Vagabonds ...... 


. 130 


The Belfry Pigeon. ...... 


613 


Farm-Yard Song. ...... 


. 352 


Woodworth, Samuel. 




The Charcoal Man ..... 


. 425 


The Old Oaken Bucket. .... 
Wilson, Mrs. Cornwall, Baron. 


549 


Uhland, Johann Ludwig. 




Answer to the Hour of Death . 


675 


The Lost Church ...... 


. 622 


Wordsworth, William. 




Vandyke, Mary E. 




Intimations of Immortality . . . 


209 


The Bald-Headed Tyrant . . 


. 687 


The Reaper ......... 


368 






The Lost Love ........ 


670 


Watson, James W. 








Beautiful Snow ...... 


. 443 


Yates, John H. 




Weatherly, G. 




The Old Ways and the New = . 


104 


"A Lion's Head." , 


. 181 


The Model Church. ...... 


544 


Westwood, Thomas. 




Youl, Edward. 




The Voices at the Throne= . . 


. 527 


Song of Spring ........ 


98 




FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS. 



HO. PAGE. 

I. FRONTISPIECE. (STEEL.) 4 

II. "THE GROVES WERE GOD'S FIRST TEMPLES." 38 

III. THE GRASSHOPPER KING 42 

IV. SUMMER . 68 

V. DOMINION OVER THE FISH OF THE SEA 76 

VI. MODERN TIMES IN THE GOLDEN AUTUMN 104 

VII. "A TYPE OF GRANDEUR, STRENGTH AND MAJESTY." 181 

VIII. DRIFTING. 210 

IX. •• TO HIM WHO IN THE LOVE OF NATURE." . 214 

27 



28 FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS. 

HO. PAGE. 

X. NIGHT 242 

XI. "THUS DEPARTED HIAWATHA." 342 

XII. " ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF THE FOREST." 344 

XIII. " THE FIERCE, FOAMING, BURSTING TIDE." 362 

XIV. " BLESSINGS ON THEE, LITTLE MAN." 416 

XV. "I'M GROWING OLD." . . 438 

XVI. "THE BEAUTIFUL SNOW." 443 

XVII. PATIENCE 450 

XVIII. THE CHEMIST ........ 469 

XIX. FLYING FROM THE FIRE . 472 

XX. THE CRAFTY OLD FOX 482 

XXI. "ICE-BOUND TREES ARE GLITTERING." 596 

XXII. GROTTO OF ANTIPAROS 636 

XXIII. ARCTIC LIFE . 662 

XXIV. GRANDPA AND HIS PETS. 656 

XXV. WINTER JOYS 668 





TITLE. 



QUOTATION. 



PAGE 



Vase (Ornament.) 7 

Royal Necklace 8 

Poet Laukeate . . • 9 

An Outlook " 10 

Entablatuee . . • 11 

Heealdic Eagle «... . 14 

sculptuee 15 

commemoeative vase " 18 

Aet Emblems . 19 

Good Luck " 26 

Repousse Woek . " 27 

Cupid " 28 

Tablet " 29 

The Bjinn. " . 34 

Studiousness 35 

The Old Skippee . . . " Sitting in the boat at work.'" 39 

Getting Ready .......... " You must first catch them." . 40 

The Old Clock " Half-way up the stairs it stands." 41 

The Blood Hoese " Full of fire, and full of bone." 42 

Cobblee at Woek " Keezar sat on the hillside." 44 

The Falls " Flashing in foam and spray. v ....... 45 

The Aeched Beidge . " Down the grand old river Rhine. v 46 

Poultey 

The Cobblee's Joy 

The Butch Mill 

The Cock 

The Beidge 

Heaet of the Alps 

Wintee in the Countey " The untrodden snow." . . . . 

Off foe a Sail " The ripples lightly toss the boat 



" Grand were the strutting turkeys." . . . , 
" Loud laughed the cobbler Keezar." . . . 
" Which the Dutch farmers are so fond of. v 
" Clapping his burnished wings, and crowing. 
" I had stood on that bridge at midnight." . , 
" Gfirt round with rugged mountains." . . . , 



47 
49 
50 
51 
53 
55 
60 



29 



30 ILLUSTRATIONS. 



TITLE. QUOTATION. PAGE. 

Geaveyaed c . . . . " I've laid you, darling, down to sleep." . ... 63 

Ancesteal Homestead . " The stately homes of England.'' 65 

Mothee and Child " Look where our children start." 68 

The Meadow Road " This morning the parson takes a drive. 1 ' . ... 71 

Baeeiees or the Sea "A wall of defence." 76 

Skippee Ieeson's Ride . ..... . " Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart." . 79 

Chaleue Bay. " Looked for a coming that might not be." ... 80 

Baby Deae " Where did you come from, baby dear?". ... 82 

Bueial Place . . . "A voice from the tomb sweeter than song." ... 88 

Embaekation op the Exiles . . . . . " Busily plied the freighted boats." 90 

Peesident Lincoln " ' God bless you, sir,' said Blossom." ..... 94 

Ruined Cottage ....." None will dwell in that cottage." 97 

Vase of Flo wees " Learn of these gentle flowers." . . . . . „ . . 98 

Jimmy Butlee dieected ......" You've no time to lose." 101 

The Attack "I saw a pair of big eyes." . 103 

The Twins on the Teain " My twins, 1 shall ne'er see again." . 108 

Twinkleton on Teial . , " You deserted your infants." 108 

Stivee's Hoese ..." His ears back, his mouth open." 113 

Stivee's Hoese " He exercised me." 114 

Stivee's Hoese " He turned about, and shot for the gate." . . . 116 

Chaeley " Muzzer's bought a baby." 120 

Chaeley and the Baby " Ain't he awful ugly." 120 

Chaeley's Cey _. *" Nose ain't out of joy ent." 120 

Chaeley's Haie Pulled. .... . " Zink I ought to love him !" , . . . 120 

Chaeley and Biddy ........ " Be a good boy, Charley." 121 

Chaeley's Comfoet " Beat him on ze head." 121 

Me. Mann's Haste " Fly around." 126 

Me. Mann's Steuggles "He began to sweat." 127 

Me. Mann's Defeat. . " Glaring at the departing train." 129 

Rogeb and I. "We are two travelers." 130 

Suegeey " Chock up" 133 

The Explanation " He's that 'handsomer than than you.' ". . . . 141 

Pete by the" Chimney " Toasting his shins." 143 

Pete in Reteeat " No,~sa, I runs." 143 

Coeal Reef . " Who build in the tossing and treacherous main." 147 

Nutting . " The squirrel is not more nimble." 149 

Puzzled Dutchman "I'm a proken-hearted Deutscher." 151 

Hans and Yawcob " I doosn't know my name." 152 

Pat and the Doctoe "Pat, how is that for a sign?" 155 

The Quack " The song that it sings is ' Quack, Quack. " . . 156 

Lincoln's Monument " With malice towards none; with charity for all." 162 

The Little Conqueeoe . "My arms are round my darling thrown." . . . 165 

Betty and the Beae „ . " Seated himself on the hearth." 171 

Betty and the Beae „ " The bear was no more." 172 

The Sea " The calm, gently-heaving, silent sea." 176 

Cliffs by the Sea " What rocks and cliffs are so glorious?" .... 178 

Cyclone "It vanquished them at last." 185 

Papa's Geave " Cover with roses each lowly green mound." . . 192 

My Childhood Home "A little low hut by the river's side." . . . . . 196 



ILLUSTRATIONS. 31 



TITLE. QUOTATION. PAGE. 

The Water-Mill " The mill will never grind again." 201 

Old Church-Yard . ." Through the church-way path we saw him borne." 203 

Angling.. .." The gallant fisher's life, it is the best of any." . 206 

Forest Depths . . . , " The venerable woods" 215 

The Silent River " Thou hast taught me, Silent River." 221 

The Brook " I come from haunts of coot and hern" .... 222 

Tower . " Sounds of low wailing from the tower ." . . . . 226 

Nobility . " Nobility is a graceful ornament." 228 

Two Kittens " The two little kittens had nowhere te go" . . . 229 

Whittier's Birth-place " A picture memory brings to me ." 230 

Dove-Cote " A pretty nursery." 233 

The Old Church " I stood before ... a large church door." . . . 238 

Maidenhood = " Maiden with the meek brown eyes." 246 

The Brook Side « . . . . " I wandered by the mill" 247 

Cataract of Lodore " How does the water come down at Lodoref". . 248 

The Fisher's Cottage " We sat by the fisher's cottage" 253 

Jolly Old Pedagogue "He took the little ones upon his knee" .... 259 

Ships on the Sea " Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee." ..... 263 

The American Boy " Look up, my boy." 268 

Rock me to Sleep " Mother, come back from the echoless shore." . . 274 

Ruined Church " The ruin lone and hoary." 281 

Rural Comfort " In rural occupation there is nothing mean" . . 285 

Mother's Chair " A sacred thing is that old arm-chair." .... 286 

The Student " Spend not your time in that which profits not." 292 

The Country Church " The steeplewas the only thing that folks could see." 294 

Der Drummer " Who puts oup at der pest hotel?" 297 

The Greeting " How you vas to-day." 297 

At Business "Look, and see how nice." 297 

In Society . . . " Und kiss Katrina on the mouth." 297 

Indignation " Und mit a black eye goes away" 298 

Gathering Night * • . . " When all around is peace." 302 

The Forge "Clang, clang! the massive anvils ring." .... 304 

The Church Bell " In mellow tones rang out a bell." 310 

Hans and Fritz " Two Deutschers who lived side by side." .... 311 

Dead on the Field " Till death united." 313 

Singing Birds " The lark at heaven's gate sings." 319 

Excelsior . " His brow was sad ; his eye beneath, flashed." . 322 

Father Time " He lives forever, and his name is Time." . . . 325 

Fruit Piece " The dinner now makes its appearance." . . . 329 

Little Margery " Dr earning of the coming years." 330 

Learning to Pray " Kneeling fair in the twilight gray ." 331 

Rats at Work " The rats a nightly visit paid." 335 

Sleighing "' Tis the merry, merry sleigh." •. . . 339 

Hiawatha's Home " I will bring her to your wigwam." 342 

The Breaking Sea " Break, break, break, on thy cold stones, sea." 348 

Rabbit " They rustle to the rabbit's tread." 349 

Triumphal Arch " Borne with her army." 351 

Farm-yard " Into the yard the farmer goes." 352 

Morning , " The east began to kindle." 355 



32 ILLUSTRATIONS. 



TITLE. QUOTATION. PAGE, 

The Tigee " Burning bright, in the forest of the night" . . 357 

The Minster Window " The minster window, richly glowing." . . . . 358 

Ship at Sea " I was born on the open sea." 362 

Cave by the Sea " Seek me the cave of Silver." 363 

Sickle and Sheaf "She cuts and binds the grain.'' 368 

The Lover's By-way " We left the old folks have the highway." . . . 369 

Birds " Notes from the lark 111 borrow." 374 

King of Denmark's Ride " The king rode first." 380 

Mirage " Bare as the surface of the desert." 386 

Sands o' Dee " Never home came she." 392 

Annie and Willie " Well, why Hant we pray ?" 396 

The Elephant " Who went to see the Elephant." 398 

The Glen " Far down a narrow glen." 403 

The Burning Steamer " A noble funeral pyre." 407 

Buried in Snow . " All day had the snow come down." 409 

Frozen to Death " Cold and Dead." 410 

Sea-Shore " The sea remembers nothing. It is feline." . . 415 

Leedle Yawcob " I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart." 419 

The Owl " The king of the night is the bold brown owl." . 423 

Alpine Peaks " The far more glorious ridges." 428 

The Old Man " Sat a hoary pilgrim sadly musing." 431 

Approach to Arnheim " The channel now became a gorge." 434 

Stormy Petrels . " The stormy petrel finds a home." . 439 

Little and Great " Mighty at the last." 442 

Pelicans " That lonely couple on their isle." 447 

Mother and Babe " Love is a legal tender." 452 

Maud Muller " Simple beauty and rustic health." 459 

The Lark " The merry, merry lark was up and singing." . 463 

Innovations of the White Man . . . " The red man %s thy foe." 465 

Star of Bethlehem " One alone a Saviour speaks." 469 

The Birds' Home " When sparrows build." 471 

Interior of Westminster Abbey . . " These lofty vaults." 475 

Terrace-Lawn " Every slanting terrace-lawn" 480 

Meeting of the Waters " The bright waters meet." 484 

The River Valley . . " You see the dull plain fall." 488 

The Barn " The old swallow-haunted barns." 489 

The Granary " Lay the heaped ears." 490 

Mabel Martin " Mabel Martin sat apart." 490 

The Horseshoe Charm "To guard against her mother s harm." .... 491 

Mabel in Grief " Small leisure have the poor ." 492 

The Champion " I brook no insult to my guest." 492 

The Streaming Lights " The harvest lights of Harden shone." 493 

The Betrothal " Her tears of grief were tears of joy." 494 

God's Acre " The burial ground God 's acre." 498 

The Comet " Save when a blazing comet was seen." .... 505 

News from the Forest " Straggling rangers . . . homeward faring ." . . 508 

Call to the Boat " To the beach we all are going" 509 

In the Forest " Some red squaw his moose-meat's broiling." . . 509 

The Return " ' Robert ! ' ' Martha ! ' " all they say." .... 510 



ILLUSTRATIONS. 33 



TITLE. QUOTATION. PAGE. 

Smiley's Frog " He was planted as solid as an anvil." 512 

The Light House " The Light-house fire blazed." 513 

The River Shore " I hear the keel grating" 518 

Steam-train " Down came the night express." 519 

Old-time Fire-place " A fire in the kitchen ." 520 

Mother's Bible . .' "My Mothers hands this Bible clasped." . . . 523 

Plymouth Rock " The ice-clad rocks of Plymouth." ....... 524 

The Swan " Seek' st thou the plashy brink?" 527 

Battle Monument . " The Battle Monument at Baltimore" 531 

Sheridan's Ride " Here is the steed that saved the day." 536 

Ancient Stronghold " Stone walls and bulwarks." 540 

The Old Man " The last leaf upon the tree." 542 

The Stream " She found a Lotus by the stream." 547 

Scene of my Childhood " The rude bucket which hung in the well." . . . 549 

Lord Ullin "Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore" .... 552 

Birds at Home " By every light wind . . . swung ." 557 

By The Fireside " Bight and left sat dame and goodman "... 561 

The Surprise " What is this?" 562 

The Forest Grave "On her wooden cross at Simcoe." 563 

The River "No ripple from the water's hemP 566 

The Lamb " Mary haf got one little lambs already" . . . 567 

Battle of Lookout Mountain . . . . " Fortified Lookout." 570 

Porpoise " Tumbling about the bow of the ship." .... 574 

The Dead Soldier " The wounded to die." 578 

The Playmates ..." The blossoms in the sweet May field." .... 582 

The Tempest " The lightning flashing free." 587 

Ballooning " The balloon was cast off." 591 

The Mountain Torrent " The torrent is heard on the hillP 595 

The Surf " I see the waves upon the shore." 601 

Mount Vernon " Washington's modest home." 604 

Draw-bridge " The dark tunnel of the bridge" ....... 605 

Hay-boat . " The heavy hay-boats crawl." 605 

The Abutment " The gray abutment' s wall." 606 

The Evening Walk " The walk on pleasant Newbury 's shore ." . . . 607 

Calmness " Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud." 610 

The Cathedral Tower " Proud Cathedral towers." 615 

The Shore " Never the ocean wave falters in flowing." . . . 619 

Harvesting " Lo, the husbandman reaping." 620 

Work in the Meadows " With meadows wide." . . • 625 

Iceberg . . . „ . . " It then floated on the sea, an iceberg." .... 627 

Home " My lowly thatched cottage" 628 

Castle and Lawn " My lands so broad and fair." 631 

The Ravens " Child and flowers both were dead." 639 

Trout "I have killed many fish." 643 

Cooking the Fish " Men have their hours of eating ." 644 

The Rocky Shore " Not of the watery home thou tellest." 645 

Fingal'sCave " The cave of musicP 649 

Ecclesiastical Emblems " The cohort of the fathers." 652 

Salt Meadows " The sweetness of the hay ." . . • 654 



34 



ILLUSTRATIONS. 



TITLE. 



QUOTATION. 



" The snowball 1 s compliments 11 ...... 

" Forth into the night he hurled it." . . . 

" Tracing words upon the sand." . 669 

670 
670 
676 
678 



PAGE. 

At the Ferry . . . . " He set his horse to the river. 1 ' ......... 655 

Day Dawn . ............ "Awake! it is the day. 11 661 

Valley op Chamounix ..'....'." Green vales and icy cliffs. 11 ......... 664 

The Gutter .......... c . "Spring to their cutters. 11 .......... 667 

Rustic Games.. . u Its rough accompaniment of blind man's buff." 667 

Snow Balling'. ......... " The snowball's compliments. 11 ........ 668 

The Poet . ............ " Forth into the night he hurled it." ..... 669 

The Maiden r ........ . 

The Rose . , ....... 

Blessedness ......... 

Grandmother's Spectacles . . . 
Beauties op the Deep ..... 

Work in the Field. ...... 

The Steamship . , 

The Bald-headed Tyrant - . < 

Mountaineer's Warfare . . . . . " A murderous rain of rocks. 1 ' , 

The Gateway ...... ,. .... " The chamber over the gate. 11 , 

Surges and Shore ........." These restless surges eat away the shores" . 

Greece. ............ . "' In Pcestum 1 s ancient fanes I trod." . . . . 

The Old House ..." Bid the old house good-bye." ....... 

Country Rambles . " Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do" 

The Holy Land " Pavement for his footstep." ....... 

Shooting Porpoises ... 

The Arab's Tent , . 

The Scribe ........ . . 

History 

Culture 

Iolanthe Dreaming . . , . . 
Music 



" Full of bliss she takes the token.'' .... 

" Kiss his moonlit forehead". ...... 

" She would often let her glasses slip down." 
" Deep in the wave is a coral grove". . . . 

" And so we worked together." 

" The great hull swayed to the current." . . 
" He rules them all with relentless hand" . 



683 
687 
691 
693 
694 
696 
698 
700 
703 
" Tickling them with shot." ......... 705 

" Shall fold their tents like the Arabs" 707 

708 
709 
713 
722 
723 



(Ornament). 




yarn 




FOREST HYMN. 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 




3HE groves were God's first temples, 
ere man learned 
To hew the shaft, and lay the 

architrave, 
And spread the roof above them, — 

ere he framed 
The lofty vault, to gather and roll 
back 
The sound of anthems ; in the darkling wood, 
Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down, 
And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks 
And supplication. For his simple heart 
Might not resist the sacred influences 
Which, from the stilly twilight of the place, 
And from the gray old trunks that high in 

heaven 
Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the 

sound 
Of the invisible breath that swayed at once 
All their green tops, stole over him, and 

bowed 
His spirit with the thought of boundless 

power 
And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why 
Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect 
God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore 
Only among the crowd, and under roofs 
That our frail hands have raised ? Let me, 
a,t least, 



Here, in the shadow of this aged wood, 
Offer one hymn, — thrice happy if it find 
Acceptance in His ear. 

Father, Thy hand 
Hath reared these venerable columns. Thou 
Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst 

look down 
Upon the naked earth, and forthwith rose 
All these fair ranks of trees. They in Thy 

sun 
Budded, and shook their green leaves in Thy 

breeze, 
And shot towards heaven. The century- 
living crow, 
Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and 

died 
Among their branches, till at last they stood, 
As now they stand, massy and tall and dark, 
Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold 
Communion with his Maker. These dim 

vaults, 
These winding aisles, of human pomp or 

pride, 
Report not. No fantastic carvings show 
The boast of our vain race to change the form 
Of Thy fair works. But Thou art here. — 

Thou fill'st 
The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds 

37 



38 



A FOREST HYMN. 



That run along the summit of these trees 
In music ; Thou art in the cooler breath 
That from the inmost darkness of the place 
Comes, scarcely felt ; the barky trunks, the 

ground, 
The fresh, moist ground, are all instinct with 

Thee: 
Here is continual worship ; — nature, here, 
In the tranquility that Thou dost love, 
Enjoys Thy presence. Noiselessly around, 
From perch to perch, the solitary bird 
Passes ; and yon clear spring that, midst its 

herbs, 
Wells softly -forth, and, wandering, steeps the 

roots 
Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale 
Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left 
Thyself without a witness, in these shades, 
Of Thy perfection. Grandeur, strength, and 

grace 
Are here to speak of Thee. This mighty 

oak, — 
By whose immovable stem I stand and seem 
Almost annihilated, — not a prince. 
In all that proud old world beyond the deep, 
E'er wore his crown as loftily as he 
Wears the green coronal of leaves with 

which 
Thy hand hath graced him. Nestled at his 

root 
Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare 
Of the broad sun. That delicate forest 

flower, 
With scented breath, and look so like a 

smile, 
Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould, 
An emanation of the indwelling life, 
A visible token of the upholding Love, 
That are the soul of this wide universe. 

My heart is awed within me when I think 
Of the great miracle that still goes on, 
In silence, round me, — the perpetual work 
Of Thy creation, finished, yet renewed 
Forever. Written on Thy works, I read 
The lesson of Thy own eternity. 
Lo ! all grow old and die ; but see again, 
How on the faltering footsteps of decay 
Youth presses, — ever gay and beautiful 
youth, 



In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees 
Wave not less proudly that their ancestors 
Moulder beneath them. 0, there is not 

lost 
One of Earth's charms ! Upon her bosom 

yet, 

After the flight of untold centuries, 
The freshness of her far beginning lies, 
And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle 

hate 
Of his arch-enemy, — Death,— jh& % ,3eats him- 
self 
Upon the tyrant's throne, the sepulchre, 
And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe 
Makes his own nourishment. For he came 

forth 
From Thine own bosom, and shall have no 
end. 

There have been holy men who hid them- 
selves 
Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave 
Their lives to thought and prayer, till they 

outlived 
The generation born with them, nor seemed 
Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks 
Around them; — and there have been holy 

men 
Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus. 
But let me often to these solitudes 
Retire, and in Thy presence, reassure 
My feeble virtue. Here its enemies, 
The passions, at Thy plainer footsteps 

shrink, 
And tremble, and are still. God ! when 

Thou 
Dost scare the world with tempests, set on 

fire 
The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or 

fill, 
With all the waters of the firmament, 
The swift dark whirlwind that uproots the 

woods 
And drowns the villages ; when, at Thy call, 
Uprises the great deep, and throws himself 
Upon the continent, and overwhelms 
Its cities, — who forgets not, at the sight 
Of these tremendous tokens of Thy power, 
His prides, and lay his strifes aud follies 

by? 




"The groves were God's first Temple.- 



MORALITY OF ANGLING. 



39 



O, from these sterner aspects of Thy face 
Spare me and mine, nor let us need the 

wrath 
Of the mad, unchained elements, to teach 



Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate 
In these calm shades, Thy milder majesty, 
And to the beautiful order of Thy works 
Learn to conform the order of our lives. 



MORALITY OF ANGLING. 



WILLIAM C. PRIME. 




UT how about killing fish for sport? In the name of sense, man, if 
God made fish to be eaten, what difference does it make if I enjoy 

rthe killing of them before I eat them ? You would have none but 
a fisherman by trade do it, and then you would have him utter a 
sigh, a prayer, and a pious ejaculation at each cod or haddock that 
he killed ; and if by chance the old fellow, sitting in the boat at 

work, should for a moment think there was, after all, a little fun and a 

little pleasure in his 

business, you would have 

him take a round turn 

with his line, and drop 

on his knees to ask for- 
giveness for the sin of 

thinking there was sport 

in fishing. 

I can imagine the sad- 
faced melancholy-eyed 

man, who makes it his 

business to supply game 

for the market as you 

would have him, sober 

as the sexton in Hamlet, 

and forever moralizing 

over the gloomy neces- 
sity that has doomed 

him to a life of murder ? 

Why, good sir, he would 

frighten respectable fish, and the market would soon be destitute. 

The keenest day's sport in my journal of a great many years of sport 

was when, in company with some other gentlemen, I took three hundred 

blue-fish in three hours' fishing off Block Island, and those fish were eaten 




40 



THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 



the same night or the next morning in Stonington, and supplied from fifty 
to one hundred different tables, as we threw them up on the dock for any 
one to help himself. I am unable to perceive that I committed any sin in 
taking them, or any sin in the excitement and pleasure of taking them. 

It is time moralists had done with this mistaken morality. If you 
eschew animal food entirely, then you may argue against killing animals, 

and I will not argue with you. But 
the logic of this business is simply 
this : The Creator made fish and flesh 
for the food of man, and as we can't 
eat them alive, or if we do, we can't 
digest them alive, the result is we 
must kill them first, and (see the old 
rule of cooking a dolphin) it is some- 
times a further necessity, since they 
won't come to be killed when we call 
them, that we must first catch them. 
Show first, then, that it is a painful 
necessity, a necessity to be avoided if 
possible, which a good man must 
shrink from and abhor, unless starved 
into it, to take fish or birds, and 
which he must do when he does it 
with regret, and with sobriety and 
seriousness, as he would whip his 
child, or shave himself when his beard is three days old, and you have 
your case. But till you show this, I will continue to think it great sport 
to supply my market with fish. 




THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STATES. 



H. W. LONGFELLOW. 



?OMEWHAT back from the village 
street 
Stands the old-fashioned country-seat; 
Across its antique portico 
Tall poplar trees their shadows throw ; 
And, from its station in the hall, 
An ancient timepiece says to all, 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever !" 



Half-way up the stairs it stands, 
And points and beckons with its hands, 
From its case of massive oak, 
Like a monk who, under his cloak, 
Crosses himself, and sighs, alas ! 
With sorrowful voice to all who pass, 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever !" 



THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 



41 



By day its voice is low and light ; 
But in the silent dead of night, 
Distinct as a passing footstep's fall, 
It echoes along the vacant hall, 
Along the ceiling, along the floor, 
And seems to say at each chamber door, 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever !" 



All are scattered, now, and fled, — 
Some are married, some are dead : 
And when I ask, with throbs of pain, 
" Ah ! when shall they all meet again ?'' 
As in the days long since gone by, 
The ancient timepiece makes reply, 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever !" 



Through days of sorrow and of mirth, 
Through days of death and days of 

birth, 
Through every swift vicissitude 
Of changeful time, unchanged it has 

stood, 
And as if, like God, it all things saw, 
It calmly repeats those words of awe, 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever !" 

In that mansion used to be 

Free-hearted Hospitality ; 

His great fires up the chimney roared ; " 

The stranger feasted at his board ; 

But, like the skeleton at the feast, 

That warning timepiece never ceased, !,: 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever !" 

There groups of merry children played; 
There youths and maidens dreaming 

strayed ; 
Oh, precious hours ! oh, golden prime 
And affluence of love and time ! 
Even as a miser counts his gold, 
Those hours the ancient timepiece 

told — 

41 Forever — never ! 
Never — forever !" 

From that chamber, clothed in white, 
The bride came forth on her wedding 

night ; 
There, in that silent room below, 
The dead lay, in his shroud of snow ; 
And, in the hush that followed the 

prayer, 
Was heard the old clock on the stair, — 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever !." 




Never here, forever there, 
Where all parting, pain, and care, 
And death, and time shall disap- 
pear, — 
Forever there, but never here ! 
The horologue of Eternity 
Sayeth this incessantly, 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever !" 



42 



THE BLOOD HORSE. 



THE GRASSHOPPER KING. 



FROM THE GREEK: OF ANACREON, B, C, 560. 



^pAPPY insect, what can be 

$ In happiness compared to thee? 
Fed with nourishment divine, 
The dewy morning's gentle wine ! 
Nature waits upon thee still, 
£ And thy verdant cup does fill ; 
'Tis filled wherever thou dost tread, 
Nature's self thy Ganymede. 



Thou dost drink and dance and sing, 
Happier than the happiest king ! 
All the fields which thou dost see, 
All the plants belong to thee ; 
All the summer hours produce, 
Fertile made with early juice, 
Man for thee does sow and plough, 
Farmer he, and landlord thou I 




&&14? 



THE BLOOD HORSE. 



» ."""v . • 



BARRY CORNWALL. 




fg^AMARRA is a dainty steed, 



Strong, black, and of noble breed, 
Full of fire, and full of bone, 
With all his line of fathers known ; 
Fine his nose, his nostrils thin, 
But blown abroad by the pride within ! 

His mane is like a river flowing, 

And his eyes like embers glowing 

In the darkness of the night, 

And his paoe as swift as light. 

Look, — how round his straining throat 
Grace and shifting beauty float ; 
Sinewy strength is in his reins, 



And the red blood gallops through his veins, 

Richer, redder, never ran 

Through the boasting heart of man. 

He can trace his lineage higher 

Than the Bourbon dare aspire, — ■ 

Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph, 

Or O'Brien's blood itself ! 

He, who hath no peer, was born 
Here, upon a red March morn ; 
But his famous fathers dead 
Were Arabs all, and Arab-bred, 
And the last of that great line 
Trod like one of a race divine ! 



'HE FRONT AND SIDE DOORS. 43 



And yet, — he was but friend to one, 
Who fed him at the set of sun 
By some lone fountain fringed with green ; 
With him, a roving Bedouin. 



He lived (none else would he obey 
Through all the hot Arabian day), 
And died untamed upon the sands 
Where Balkh amidst the desert stands I 



THE FRONT AND SIDE DOORS. 




OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 



VERY person's feelings have a front-door and side-door by which 

they may be entered. The front-door is on the street. Some keep 

it always open ; some keep it latched ; some, locked ; some, bolted, 

— with a chain that will let you peep in, but not get in ; and some 

i nail it up, so that nothing can pass its threshold. This front-door 

• leads into a passage which opens into an ante-room, and this into 

the interior apartments. The side-door opens at once into the sacred 

chambers. 

There is almost always at least one key to this side-door, This is 
carried for years hidden in a mother's bosom. Fathers, brothers, sisters, 
and friends, often, but by no means so universally, have duplicates of it. 
The wedding-ring conveys a right to one ; alas, if none is given with it ! 

Be very careful to whom you trust one of these keys of the side-door. 
The fact of possessing one renders those even who are dear to you very 
terrible at times. You can, keep the world out from your front-door, or 
receive visitors only when you are ready for them ; but those of your own 
flesh and blood, or of certain grades of intimacy, can come in at the side- 
door, if they will, at any hour and in any mood. Some of them have a 
scale of your whole nervous system, and can play all the gamut of your 
sensibilities in semitones, — touching the naked nerve-pulps as a pianist 
strikes the keys of his instrument. I am satisfied that there are as great 
masters of this nerve-playing as Vieuxtemps or Thalberg in their lines of 
performance. Married life is the school in which the most accomplished 
artists in this department are found. A delicate woman is the best instru- 
ment; she has such a magnificent compass of sensibilities! From the deep 
inward moan which follows pressure on the great nerves of right, to the 
sharp cry as the filaments of the taste are struck with a crushing sweep, is 
a range which no other instrument possesses. A few exercises on it daily 
at home fit a man wonderfully for his habitual labors, and refresh him im- 
mensely as he returns from them No stranger can get a great many notes 



44 



COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION. 



of torture out of a human soul ; it takes one that knows it well, — parent, 
child, brother, sister, intimate. Be very careful to whom you give a side- 
door key; too many have them already. 




COBBLER KEEZAES VISION. 




JOHN G. WHITTIER. 



HE beaver cut his timber 

With patient teeth that day, 
The minks were fish-wards, and 
crows 
Surveyors of highway, — 



When Keezar sat on the hillside 

Upon his cobbler's form, 
With a pan of coals on either hand 

To keep his waxed-ends warm. 

And there, in the golden weather, 

He stitched and hammered and sung, 



the 



In the brook he moistened his leather, 
In the pewter mug his tongue. 

Well knew the tough old Teuton 
Who brewed the stoutest ale, 

And he paid the goodwife's reckonings 
In the coin of song and tale. 

The'songs they still are singing 
Who dress the hills of vine 

The tales that haunt the Brocken, 
And whisper down the Rhine. 



COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION. 



45 



Woodsy and wild and lonesome, 
The swift stream wound away, 

Through birches and scarlet maples, 
Flashing in foam and spray, — 



" Why should folks be glum," said Keezar, 

When Nature herself is glad, 
And the painted woods are laughing 

At the faces so sour and sad ?" 




Down on the sharp-horned ledges, 
Plunging in steep cascade, 

Tossing its white-maned waters 
Against the hemlock's shade. 

Woodsy and wild and lonesome, 
East and west and north and south 

Only the village of fishers 
Down at the river's mouth ; 

Only here and there a clearing, 
With its farm-house rude and new, 

And tree-stumps, swart as Indians, 
Where the scanty harvest grew. 

No shout of home-bound reapers, 
No vintage-song he heard, 

And on the green no dancing feet 
The merry violin stirred. 



Small heed had the careless cobbler 
What sorrow of heart was theirs 

Who travailed in pain with the births of God, 
And planted a state with prayers, — 

Hunting of witches and warlocks, 

Smiting the heathen horde, — 
One hand on the mason's trowel, 

And one on the soldier's sword ! 

But give him his ale and cider, 

Give him his pipe and song, 
Little he cared for Church or State, 

Or the balance of right and wrong. 

" Tis work, work, work," he muttered, — 
And for rest a snuffle of psalms !" 

He smote on his leathern apron 
With his brown and waxen palms. 



46 



COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION. 



" for the purple harvests 

Of the days when I was young ! 

For the merry grape-stained maidens, 
And the pleasant songs they sung ! 




" for the breath of vineyards, 
Of apples and nuts and wine ! 

For an oar to row and a breeze to blow 
Down the grand old river Rhine !" 

A tear in his blue eye glistened, 
And dropped on his beard so gray. 

" Old, old am I," said Keezar, 

" And the Rhine flows far away !" 

But a cunning man was the cobbler ; 

He could call the birds from the trees, 
Charm the black snake out of the ledges, 

And bring back the swarming, bees. 

All the virtues of herbs and metals, 
All the lore of the woods, he knew, 

And the arts of the Old World mingled 
With the marvels of the New. 

Well he knew the tricks of magic, 
And the lapstone on his knee 

Had the gift of the Mormon's goggles, 
Or the stone of Doctor Dee. 

For the mighty master, Agrippa, 
Wrought it with spell and rhyme 

From a fragment of mystic moonstone 
In the tower of Nettesheim. 

To a cobbler, Minnesinger, 

The marvelous stone gave he, — 

And he gave it, in turn, to Keezar, 
Who brought it over the sea. 



He held up that mystic lapstone, 

He held it up like a lens, 
And he counted the long years coming 

By twenties and by tens. 

" One hundred years," quoth Keezar, 

" And fifty have I told: 
Now open the new before me, 

And shut me out the old !" 

Like a cloud of mist, the blackness 

Rolled from the magic stone, 
And a marvelous picture mingled, 

The unknown and the known. 

Still ran the stream to the river, 

And river and ocean joined ; 
And there were Jhe bluffs and the blue sea-line, 

And cold north hills behind. 

But the mighty forest was broken, 

By many a steepled town, 
By many a white-walled farm-house, 

And many a garner brown. 

Turning a score of mill-wheels, 

The stream no more ran free ; 
White sails on the winding river, 

White sails on the far-off sea. 

Below in the noisy village 

The flags were floating gay, 
And shone on a thousand faces 

The light of a holiday. 

Swiftly the rival ploughmen 

Turned the brown earth from their shares ; 
Here were the farmer's treasures, 

There were the craftsman's wares. 

Golden the goodwife's butter, 
Ruby the currant-wine ; 




Grand were the strutting turkeys, 
Fat were the beeves and swine. 



COBBLER KEEZAE'S VISION. 



47 



Yellow and red were the apples, 
And the ripe pears russet-brown, 

And the peaches had stolen blushes 
From the girls who shook them down. 

And with blooms of hill and wild-wood, 

That shame the toil of art, 
Mingled the gorgeous blossoms 

Of the garden's tropic heart. 

" What is it I see ?" said Keezar, 

" Am I here, or am I there ? 
Is it a fete at Bingen ? 

Do I look on Frankfort fair ? 



" Here's a priest, and there is a Quaker - - 

Do the cat and dog agree ? 
Have they burned the stocks for oven-wood? 

Have they cut down the gallows-tree ? 

" Would the old folk know their children ? 

Would they own the graceless town, 
With never a ranter to worry, 

And never a witch to drown ?" 

Loud laughed the cobbler Keezar, 
Laughed like a school-boy gay ; 

Tossing his arms above him, 
The lapstone rolled away. 




44 But where are the clowns and puppets, 
And imps with horns and tail ? 

And where are the Rhenish flagons ? 
And where is the foaming ale ? 

"Strange things I know will happen, — 
Strange things the Lord permits ; 

But that droughty folks should be jolly 
Puzzles my poor old wits. 

■" Here are smiling manly faces, 

And the maiden's step is gay, 
"Not sad by thinking, nor mad by drinking, 

Nor mopes, nor fools, are they. 

" Here's pleasure without regretting, 

And good without abuse, 
The holiday and bridal 

Of beauty and of use. 



It rolled down the rugged hillside, 
It spun like a wheel bewitched, 

It plunged through the leaning willows, 
And into the river pitched. 

There in the deep, dark water, 

The magic stone lies still, 
Under the leaning willows 

In the shadow of the hill. 

But oft the idle fisher 

Sits on the shadowy bank, 
And his dreams make marvelous pictures 

Where the wizard's lapstone sank. 

And still, in the summer twilights, 

When the river seems to run 
Out from the inner glory, 

Warm with the melted sun, 



48 



GATHERED GOLD DUST. 



The weary mill-girl lingers 
Beside the charmed stream, 

And the sky and the golden water 
Shape and color her dream. 



Fair wave the sunset gardens, 

The rosy signals fly ; 
Her homestead beckons from the cloud, 

And love goes sailing by ! 



GATHERED GOLD DUST. 




^RITICS are sentinels in the grand army 
of letters, stationed at the corners 
of newspapers and reviews, to 
challenge every new author. 

{Longfellow. 
We can refute assertions, but who can 
refute silence. (Dickens. 

Buy what thou hast no need of, and ere 
long thou shalt sell thy necessaries. 
(Franklin. 
The great secret of success in life is, for a 
man to be ready when his opportunity 
comes. (Disraeli. 

The truly illustrious are they who do not 
court the praise of the world, but per- 
form the actions which deserve it. 

(Tilton. 

Christ awakened the world's thought, and it 

has never slept since. (Howard. 

The Cross is the prism that reveals to us the 

beauties of the Sun of Righteousness. 

(Goulburn. 
Men have feeling : this is perhaps the best 
way of considering them. (Richter-. 

Fidelity is seventh-tenths of business suc- 
cess. (Parton. 
In the march of life don't heed the order of 
"right about " when you know you are 
about right. (Holmes. 
He that lacks time to mourn lacks time to 

mend : 
Eternity mourns that. 'Tis an ill cure 
For life's worst ills, to have no time to feel 
them. (Shakespeare. 

The worst kind of vice is advice. (Coleridge. 
A self-suspicion of hypocrisy is a good evi- 
dence of sincerity. (Hannah More. 
A page digested is better than a volume hur- 
riedly read. (Macaulay. 



I am not one of those who do not believe in 
love at first sight, but I believe in tak- 
ing a second look. (Henry Vincent. 

A man is responsible for how he uses his 
common sense as well as his moral sense. 

(Beecher. 

When a man has no design but to speak 
plain truth, he isn't apt to be talkative. 

(Prentice. 

The year passes quick, though the hour tarry, 
and time bygone is a dream, though we 
thought it never would go while it was 
going. (Newman. 

Good temper, like a sunny day, sheds a 
brightness over everything. It is the 
sweetener of toil and the soother of dis- 
quietude. (Irving. 

A profound conviction raises a man above 
the feeling of ridicule. (Mill. 

Our moods are lenses coloring the world 
with as many different hues. (Emerson. 

Men believe that their reason governs their 
words, but it often happens that words 
have power to react on reason. (Bacon. 

Minds of moderate calibre ordinarily con- 
demn everything which is beyond their 
range. (La Rochefoucault. 

Geology gives us a key to the patience of 
God. (Holland. 

Do to-day thy nearest duty. (Gfoeth*. 

Many of our cares are bat a morbid way of 
looking at our privileges. 

(Walter Scott. 

The greatness of melancholy men is seldom 
strong and healthy. (Bulwer. 

Cowardice asks, Is it safe ? Expediency asks, 
Is it politic ? Vanity asks, Is it popu- 
lar ? but Conscience asks, Is it right ? 

(Punshon. 



BALTUS VAN TASSEL'S FARM. 



God made the country and man made the 
town. (Cowper. 

Sorrows humanize our race. Tears are the 
showers that fertilize the world. (Ingelow. 

It is remarkable with what Christian fortitude 
and resignation we can bear the suffer- 
ing of other folks. (Dean Swift. 

One can neither protect nor arm himself 
against criticism. We must meet it 
defiantly, and thus gradually please it. 

(Goethe. 

Silence and reserve suggest latent power. 
What some men think has more effect 
than what others say. (Chesterfield. 



Stratagems in war and love are only honor- 
able when successful. (Bulwer. 

A man behind the times is apt to speak ill of 
them, on the principle that nothing 
looks well from behind. (Holmes. 

He who isn't contented with what he has 
wouldn't be contented with what he 
would like to have. (Auerbach. 

Architecture is a handmaid of devotion. A 
beautiful church is a sermon in stone, 
and its spire a finger pointing to Heaven. 

(Schaff. 

A sorrow's crown of sorrow, 

Is remembering happier things. (Dante. 




BALTUS VAN TASSELS FARM. 



WASHINGTON IRVING. 



5CHABOD Crane had a soft and foolish heart toward the sex ; and it is 
not to be wondered at, that so tempting a morsel soon found favor in 
his eyes; more especially after he had visited her in her paternal 
I mansion. Old Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect picture of a thriving, 
contented, liberal-hearted farmer. He seldom, it is true, sent either his 
eyes or his thoughts beyond the boundaries of his own farm ; but within 
those everything was snug, happy, and well-conditioned. He was satisfied 
with his wealth, but not proud of it ; and piqued himself upon the hearty 
abundance, rather than the style in which he lived. His stronghold was 
situated on the banks of the Hudson, in one of those green, sheltered, fer- 
tile nooks, in which the Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling. A great 
elm-tree spread its branches over it, at the foot of which bubbled up a 
4 



£Q BALTUS VAN TASSEL'S FARM. 

spring of the softest and sweetest water, in a little well formed of a barrel; 
and then stole sparkling away through the grass, to a neighboring brook, 
that bubbled along among alders and dwarf willows. Hard by the farm- 
house was a vast barn, that might have served for a church ; every window 
and crevice of which seemed bursting forth with the treasures of the farm; 
the flail was busily resounding within it from morning to night; swallows 
and martins skimmed twittering about the eaves; and rows of pigeons, 
some with one eye turned up, as if watching the weather, some with their 
heads under their wings, or buried in their bosoms, and others swelling, 
and cooing, and bowing about their dames, were enjoying the sunshine on 
the roof. Sleek, unwieldy porkers were grunting in the repose and abun- 
dance of their pens ; whence sallied forth, now and then, troops of sucking 
pigs, as if to snuff the air. A stately squadron of snowy geese were riding 
in an adjoining pond, convoying whole fleets of ducks; regiments of turkeys 
were gobbling through the farmyard, and guinea fowls fretting about it, 
like ill-tempered housewives, with their peevish, discontented cry. Before 
the barn door strutted the gallant cock, that pattern of a husband, a war- 
rior, and a fine gentleman, clapping his burnished wings, and crowing in 
the pride and gladness of his heart — 
sometimes tearing up the earth with 
his feet, and then generously calling his 
ever hungry family of wives and child- 
ren to enjoy the rich morsel which he 
had discovered. 

The pedagogue's mouth watered, as 
he looked upon this sumptuous promise 
of winter fare. In his devouring mind's 
eye, he pictured to himself every roasting-pig running about with a pudding 
in his belly, and an apple in his mouth ; the pigeons were snugly put to bed 
in a comfortable pie, and tucked in with a coverlet of crust; the geese were 
swimming in their own gravy; and the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, like 
snug married couples, with a decent competency of onion sauce. In the 
porkers he saw carved out the future sleek side of bacon, and juicy relish- 
ing ham ; not a turkey but he beheld daintily trussed up, with its gizzard 
under its wing, and, peradventure, a necklace of savory sausages; and even 
bright chanticleer himself lay sprawling on his back, in a side-dish, with 
uplifted claws, as if craving that quarter which his chivalrous spirit dis- 
dained to ask while living. 

As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he rolled his great 
green eyes over the fat meadow-lands, the rich fields of wheat, of rye, of 




THE BRIDGE. 



51 



buckwheat, and Indian corn, and the orchards burdened with ruddy fruit, 
which surrounded the warm tenement of Van Tassel, his heart yearned 
after the damsel, who was to inherit those domains, and his imagination 
expanded with the idea, how they might be readily turned into cash, and 
the money invested in immense tracts of wild land, and shingle palaces in 
the wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy already realized his hopes, and pre- 
sented to him the blooming Katrina, with a whole family of children, 
mounted on the top of a wagon loaded with household trumpery, with pots 
and kettles dangling beneath; and he beheld himself bestriding a pacing 
mare, with a colt at her heels, setting out for Kentucky, Tennessee, or the 
Lord knows where. 




THE BRIDGE. 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 




STOOD on the bridge at midnight, 
As the clocks were striking the 
hour, 

And the moon rose o'er the city, 
Behind the dark church tower ; 

And like the waters rushing 
Among the wooden piers, 

A flood of thought came o'er me, 
That filled my eyes with tears. 



How often, how often, 

In the days that had gone by, 

I had stood on that bridge at midnight, 
And gazed on that wave and sky ! 

How often, how often, 

I had wished that the ebbing tide 
vv^uuiu bear me away on its bosom 

O'er the ocean wild and wide ! 

For my heart was hot and restless, 
And my life was full of care, 



And the burden laid upon me, 
Seemed greater than I could bear. 

But now it has fallen from me, 

It is buried in the sea ; 
And only the sorrow of others 

Throws its shadow over me. 

Yet whenever I cross the river 
On its bridge with wooden piers, 

Like the odor of brine from the ocean 
Comes the thought of other years. 

And I think how many thousands 

Of care-encumbered men, 
Each having his burden of sorrow, 

Have crossed the bridge since then. 

I see the long procession 

Still passing to and fro, 
The young heart hot and restless, 

And the old, subdued and slow \ 



**} 



A LEGEND OF BREGENZ. 



And forever and forever, 
As long as the river flows, 

As long as the heart has passions, 
As long as life has woes ; 



The moon and its broken reflection 
And its shadows shall appear, 

As the symbol of love in heaven, 
And its wavering image here. 



KISSING HER HAIR. 



ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. 



jISSING her hair, I sat against her feet : 
Wove and unwove it, — wound, and 
found it sweet ; 
Made fast therewith her hands, drew 
down her eyes, 
•r Deep as deep flowers, and dreamy like 
J dim skies ; 

With her own tresses bound and found her 
fair, — 

Kissing her hair. 



Sleep were no sweeter than her face to me, — 
Sleep of cold sea-bloom under the cold 

sea: 
What pain could get between my face and 

hers? 
What new sweet thing would Love not relish 

worse ? 
Unless, perhaps, white Death had kissed me 

there, — 

Kissing her hair. 



A LEGEND OF BREGENZ. 



ADELAIDE ANNIE PROCTER. 



j^lgf IRT round with rugged mountains the 
Wmg. fair Lake Constance lies ; 
|11§* In her blue heart reflected, shine back 
Mm the starry skies ; 
4 And watching each white cloudlet float 
1 silently and slow, 

7* You think a piece of heaven lies on our 
earth below ! 

Midnight is there : and silence enthroned in 

heaven, looks down 
Upon her own calm mirror, upon a sleeping 

town : 
For Bregenz, that quaint city upon the Tyrol 

shore, 
Has stood above Lake Constance, a thousand 

years and more. 

Her battlements and towers, upon their rocky 

steep, 
Have cast their trembling shadows of ages 

on the deep ; 
Mountain, and lake, and valley, a sacred 
•legend know, 



Of how the town was saved one night, three 
hundred years ago. 

Far from her home and kindred, a Tyrol maid 

had fled, 
To serve in the Swiss valleys, and toil for 

daily bread ; 
And every year that fleeted so silently and 

fast, 
Seemed to bear farther from her the memory 

of the past. 

She served kind, gentle masters, nor asked 

for rest or change ; 
Her friends seemed no more new ones, their 

speech seemed no more strange ; 
And when she led her cattle to pasture every 

day, 
She ceased to look and wonder on which 

side Bregenz lay. 

She spoke no more of Bregenz, with longing 

and with tears ; 
Her Tyrol home seemed faded in a deep mist 

of years ; 



A LEGEND OF BREGENZ. 



63 



She heeded not the rumors of Austrian war 

or strife ; 
Each day she rose contented, to the calm 

toils of life. 

Yet, when her master's children would clus- 
tering round her stand, 

She Bang them the old ballads of her own na- 
tive land ; 

And when at morn and evening she knelt 
before God's throne, 

The accents of her childhood rose to her lips 
alone. 



The men seemed stern and altered, with looks 

cast on the ground ; 
With anxious faces, one by one, the women 

gathered round ; 
All talk of flax, or spinning, or work, was 

put away ; 
The very children seemed afraid to go alone 

to play. 

One day, out in the meadow with strangera 

from the town, 
Some secret plan discussing, the men walked 

up and down. 







Girt round with rugged mountains. 



And so she dwelt : the valley more peaceful 

year by year ; 
When suddenly strange portents of some great 

deed seemed near. 
The golden corn was bending upon its fragile 

stalk, 
While farmers, heedless of their fields, paced 

up and down in talk. 



Yet now and then seemed watching a strange 

uncertain gleam, 
That looked like lances 'mid the trees that 

stood below the stream. 

At eve they all assembled, all care and doubt 

• were fled ; 
With jovial laugh they feasted, the board 
was nobly spread. 



-54 



A LEGEND OF BREGENZ. 



The elder cf the village rose up, his glass in 

hand, 
And cried, " We drink the downfall of an 

accursed land ! 

" The night is growing darker, ere one more 

day is flown, 
Bregenz, our foemen's stronghold, Bregenz 

shall be our own ! " 
The women shrank in terror, (yet pride, too, 

had her part,) 
But one poor Tyrol maiden felt death within 

her heart. 

Before her, stood fair Bregenz, once more 

her towers arose ; 
What were the friends beside her ? Only her 

country's foes ! 
The faces of her kinsfolk, the day of childhood 

flown, 
The echoes of her mountains reclaimed her 

as their own ! 

Nothing she heard around her, (though shouts 
rang forth again,) 

Gone were the green Swiss valleys, the pas- 
ture, and the plain ■ 

Before her eyes one vision, and in her heart 
one cry, 

That said, " Go forth, save Bregenz, and 
then if need be, die! " 

With trembling haste and breathless, with 

noiseless step she sped ; 
Horses and weary cattle were standing in 

the shed ; 
She loosed the strong white charger, that fed 

from out her hand, 
She mounted and she turned his head toward 

her native land. 

Out — out into the darkness — faster, and still 
more fast ; 

The smooth grass flies behind her, the chest- 
nut wood is passed ; 

She looks up ; clouds are heavy : Why is her 
steed so slow ? — 

Scarcely the wind beside them, can pass them 
as they go. 

"Faster!" she cries, "Oh, faster!" Eleven 
the church-bells chime ; 



" God," she cries, " help Bregenz, and 

bring me there in time ! " 
But louder than bells' ringing, or lowing of 

the kine, 
Grows nearer in the midnight the rushing of 

the Rhine. 

Shall not the roaring waters their headlong 

gallon check ? 
The steed draws back in terror, she leans 

above his neck 
To watch the flowing darkness, the bank is 

high and steep, 
One pause — he staggers forward, and plunges 

in the deep. 

She strives to pierce the blackness, and looser 

throws the rein ; 
Her steed must breast the waters that dash 

above his mane. 
How gallantly, how nobly, he struggles 

through the foam, 
And see — in the far distance, shine out the 

lights of home ! 

Up the steep bank he bears her, and now 

they rush again 
Towards the heights of Bregenz, that tower 

above the plain. 
They reach the gate of Bregenz, just as the 

midnight rings, 
And out come serf and soldier to meet the 

news she brings. 

Bregenz is saved ! Ere daylight her battle- 
ments are manned ; 

Defiance greets the army that marches on the 
land. 

And if to deeds heroic should endless fame 
be paid, 

Bregenz does well to honor the noble Tyrol 
maid. 

Three hundred years are vanished, and yet 

upon the hill 
An old stone gateway rises, to do her honor 

still. 
And there, when Bregenz women sit spinning 

in the shade, 
They see the quaint old carving, the charger 

and the maid. 



WINTER. 



66 



And when, to guard old Bregenz, by gateway, 

street, and tower, 
The warder paces all night long, and calls 

each passing hour : 



" Nine," " ten," " eleven," he cries aloud, 

and then (0 crown of fame !) 
When midnight pauses in the skies he calls 

the maiden's name. 




WINTER. 



DOUGLAS JERROLD. 



,J|pHE streets were empty. Pitiless cold had driven all who had the 
shelter of a roof to their homes ; and the north-east blast seemed 




to howl in triumph above the untrodden snow. Winter was at the 
heart of all things. The wretched, dumb with excessive misery, 
suffered, in stupid resignation, the tyranny of the season. Human 
blood stagnated in the breast of want ; and death in that despair- 
ing hour, losing its terrors, looked in the eyes of many a wretch a sweet 
deliverer. It was a time when the very poor, barred from the commonest 
things of earth, take strange counsel with themselves, and, in the deep 
humility of destitution, believe they are the burden and the offal of the 
world. 

It was a time when the easy, comfortable man, touched with finest 
sense of human suffering, gives from his abundance ; and, whilst bestow- 
ing, feels almost ashamed that, with such wide-spread misery circled round 
him, he has all things fitting, all things grateful. The smitten spirit asks 
wherefore he is not of the multitude of wretchedness ; demands to know 
for what especial excellence he is promoted above the thousand thousand 
starving creatures : in his very tenderness for misery, tests his privilege of 



56 



THE Q,UILTING. 



exemption from a woe that withers manhood in man, bowing him down- 
ward to the brute. And so questioned, this man gives in modesty of spirit 
— in very thankfulness of soul. His alms are not cold, formal charities ; 
but reverent sacrifices to his suffering brother. 

It was a time when selfishness hugs itself in its own warmth ; with no 
other thoughts than of its pleasant possessions ; all made pleasanter, 
sweeter, by the desolation around. When the mere worldling rejoices the 
more in his warm chamber because it is so bitter cold without, when he 
eats and drinks with whetted appetite, because he hears of destitution 
prowling like a wolf around his well-barred house, ; when, in fine, he bears 
his every comfort about him with the pride of a conqueror. A time when 
such a man sees in the misery of his fellow-beings nothing save his own 
victory of fortune — his own successes in a suffering world. To such a 
man, the poor are but the tattered slaves that grace his triumph. 

It was a time, too, when human nature often shows its true divinity, 
and with misery like a garment clinging to it, forgets its wretchedness in 
sympathy with suffering. A time, when in the cellars and garrets of the 
poor are acted scenes which make the noblest heroism of life; which 
prove the immortal texture of the human heart, not wholly seared by the 
branding-iron of the torturing hours. A time when in want, in anguish, 
in throes of mortal agony, some seed is sown that bears a flower in 
heaven. 



THE QUILTING, 



ANNA BACHE. 



fliHE day is set, the ladies met, 
And at the frame are seated, 

In order placed, they work in haste, 
To get the quilt completed ; 

While fingers fly, their tongues they 

ply- 

And animate their labors 
By counting beaux, discussing clothes, 
Or talking of their neighbors. 

Dear ! what a pretty frock you've on ;" 

" I'm very glad you like it;" 
I'm told that Miss Micornicon 

Don't speak to Mr. Micate." 
I saw Miss Belle, the other day, 

Young Green's new gig adorning ;" 
; What keeps your sister Ann away ?" 

" She went to town this morning." 



'Tis time to roll ;" " my needle's broke 

" So Martin's stock is selling." 
Louisa's wedding gown's bespoke ;" 

" Lend me your scissors, Ellen ;" 
That match will never come about ; ' 

" Now don't fly in a passion ;" 
Hair puffs they say are going out ;" 

" Yes, curls are all the fashion." 



The quilt is done, the tea begun, 

The beaux are all collecting ; 
The table's cleared, the music's heard, 

His partner each selecting ; — 
The merry band in order stand, 

The dance begins with vigor, 
And rapid feet the measure beat), 

And trip the mazy figure. 



GAPE-SEED. 



57 



Unheeded fly the minutes by, 


All closely stowed ; to each abode 


" Old time " himself is dancing, 


The carriages go tilting ; 


Till night's dull eye is op'ed to spy 


And many a dream has for its theme 


The light of morn advancing. 


The pleasures of the quilting. 



BUYING GAPE-SEED. 



JOHN B. GOUaH. 



^#\| YANKEE, walking the streets of London, looked through a win- 
§Mfj^ clow upon a group of men writing very rapidly; and one of them 
$ilp? said to him in an insulting manner, " Do you wish to buy some 
X gape-seed?" Passing on a short distance the Yankee met a man, 

i; and asked him what the business of those men was in the office he 

J had just passed He was told that they wrote letters dictated by 

others, and transcribed all sorts of documents ; in short, they were writers. 
The Yankee returned to the office, and inquired if one of the men would 
write a letter for him, and was answered in the affirmative. He asked the 
price, and was told one dollar. After considerable talk, the bargain was 
made ; one of the conditions of which was that the scribe should write 
just what the Yankee told him to, or he should receive no pay. The 
scribe told the Yankee he was ready to begin ; and the latter said, — 

" Dear marm :" and then asked, " Have you got that deown ?" 

" Yes," was the reply, "go on." 

" I went to ride t'other day : have you got that deown ?" 

" Yes ; go on, go on. 11 

" And I harnessed up the old mare into the wagon : have you got that 
deown?" 

" Yes, yes, long ago ; go on." 

" Why, how fast you write ! And I got into the wagon, and sat 
deown, and drew up the reins, and took the whip in my right hand : have 
you got that deown?" 

" Yes, long ago; go on." 

" Dear me, how fast you write ! I never saw your equal. And I 
said to the old mare, ' Go 'long, 1 and jerked the reins pretty hard : have 
you got that deown ?" 

" Yes ; and I am impatiently waiting for more. I wish you wouldn't 
bother me with so many foolish questions. Go on with your letter." 

" Well, the old mare wouldn't stir out of her tracks, and I hollered, 
4 Go 'long, you old jade ! go 'long.' Have you got that deown ?" 



58 THE LIGHT BRIGADE AT BALAKLAVA. 

" Yes, indeed, you pestersome fellow; go on.' 1 

" And I licked her, and licked her, and licked her [continuing to 
repeat these words as rapidly as possible.] 

" Hold on there ! I have written two pages of ' licked her,' and I 
want the rest of the letter.' 

" Well, and she kicked, and she kicked, and she kicked — [continuing 
to repeat these words with great rapidity.] 

" Do go on with your letter ; I have several pages of ' she kicked.' " 

[The Yankee clucks as in urging horses to move, and continues the 
clucking noise with rapid repetition for some time.] 

The scribe throws down his pen. 

" Write it deown I write it deown I" 

"leant!" 

" Well then, I won't pay you." 

[The scribe, gathering up his papers.] " What shall I do with all 
these sheets upon which I have written your nonsense ?" 

" You may use them in doing up your gape-seed. Good-by !" 



THE LIGHT BRIGADE AT BALAKLA VA. 



WILLIAM H. EUSSELL. 

|pP|HE whole brigade scarcely made one effective regiment according to 
^%i the numbers of continental armies ; and yet it was more than we 



jw ♦ could spare. As they rushed towards the front, the Russians 
opened on them from the guns in the redoubt on the right, with 
volleys of musketry and rifles. They swept proudly past, glitter- 
ing in the morning sun in all the pride and splendor of war. 
We could scarcely believe the evidence of our senses ! Surely that handful 
of men are not going to charge an army in position ? Alas ! it was but 
too true — their desperate valor knew no bounds, and far indeed was it 
removed from its so-called better part — discretion. They advanced in two 
lines, quickening their pace as they closed towards the enemy. A more 
fearful spectacle was never witnessed than by those who, without the 
power to aid, beheld their heroic countrymen rushing to the arms of death. 
At the distance of 1200 yards, the whole line of the enemy belched forth, 
from thirty iron mouths, a flood of smoke and flame, through which hissed 
the deadly balls. Their flight was marked by instant gaps in our ranks, 



CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 



by dead men and horses, by steeds flying wounded or riderless across the 
plain. The first line is broken; it is joined by the second; they never 
halt or check their speed an instant. With diminished ranks, thinned by 
those thirty guns, which the Eussians had laid with the most deadly accu- 
racy, with a halo of flashing steel above their heads, and with a cheer 
which was many a noble fellow's death-cry, they flew into the smoke of the 
batteries, but ere they were lost from view, the plain was strewed with 
their bodies and .with the carcasses of horses. They were exposed to an 
oblique fire from the batteries on the hills on both sides, as well as to a 
direct fire of musketry. Through the clouds of smoke we could see their 
sabres flashing as they rode up to the guns and dashed between them, 
cutting down the gunners as they stood. We saw them riding through 
the guns, as I have said ; to our delight we saw them returning, after 
breaking through a column of Russian infantry, and scattering them like 
chaff, when the flank fire of the battery on the hill swept them down, 
scattered and broken as they were Wounded men and dismounted 
troopers flying towards us told the sad tale — demigods could not have 
done what we had failed to do. 



CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 




ALF a league, half a league, 
Half a league onward, 

All in the valley of death 
Rode the six hundred. 

" Forward, the Light Brigade ! 

Charge for the guns !" he said. 

Into the valley of death, 
Rode the six hundred. 



" Forward, the Light Brigade !' 
"Was there a man dismayed ? 
Not though the soldiers knew 

Some one had blundered : 
Theirs not to make reply, 
Theirs not to reason why, 
Theirs but to do and die : 
Into the valley of death, 

Rode the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 



Cannon in front of them, 
Volleyed and thundered : 

Stormed at with shot and shell, 

Boldly they rode and well : 

Into the jaws of death, 

Into the mouth of hell, 
Rode the six hundred. 

Flashed all their sabers bare, 
Flashed as they turned in air, 
Sab'ring the gunners there, 
Charging an army, while 

All the world wondered : 
Plunged in the battery smoke, 
Right through the line they broke 
Cossack and Russian 
Reeled from the saber-stroke, 

Shattered and sundered. 
Then they rode back — but not, 

Not the six hundred. 



60 



THE PLEASURE BOAT. 



Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon behind them, 

Volleyed and thundered : 
Stormed at with shot and shell, 
"While horse and hero fell, 
They that had fought so well, 
Came through the jaws of death, 
Back from the mouth of hell, 



All that was left of them, 
Left of six hundred. 

When can their glory fade ? 
0, the wild charge they mado 1 

All the world wondered. 
Honor the charge they made ! 
Honor the Light Brigade, 

Noble six hundred ! 




THE PLEASURE BOAT. 



RICHARD HENRY DANA. 



fOME, hoist the sail, tho fast let go ! 
They're seated side by side ; 
Wave chases wave in pleasant flow ; 
The bay is fair and wide. 

The ripple ; lightly tap the boat. 

Loose ! Give her to the wind ! 
»She shoots ahead ; they're all afloat 

The strand is far behind. 

The sunlight falling on her sheet, 

It glitters like the drift, 
Sparkling, in scorn of summer's heat, 

High up some mountain rift. 



The winds are fresh ; she's driving fast 

Upon the bending tide ; 
The crinkling sail, and crinkling mast, 

Go with her side by side. 

The parting sun sends out a glow 

Across the placid bay, 
Touching with glory all the show, — 

A breeze! Up helm ! Away ! 

Careening to the wind, they reach, 
With laugh and call, the shore. 

They've left their footprints on the baach, 
But them I hear no more. 



CATCHING THE MORNING TRAIN. f,l 



CATCHING THE MORNING TRAIN. 



MAX ADELER. 



pp FIND that one of the most serious objections to living out of town 
«~* lies in the difficulty experienced in catching the early morning train 
Jk by which I must reach the city and my business. It is by no means 

y a pleasant matter, under any circumstances, to have one's movements 
regulated by a time-table, and to be obliged to rise to breakfast and 

^ to leave home at a certain hour, no matter how strong the temptation 
to delay may be. But sometimes the horrible punctuality of the train is 
productive of absolute suffering. For instance : I look at my watch when 
I get out of bed and find that I have apparently plenty of time, so I dress 
leisurely, and sit down to the morning meal in a frame of mind which is 
calm and serene. Just as I crack my first egg I hear the down train from 
Wilmington. I start in alarm ; and taking out my watch I compare it with 
the clock and find that it is eleven minutes slow, and that I have only five 
minutes left in which to get to the depot. 

I endeavor to scoop the egg from the shell, but it burns my fingers, 
the skin is tough, and after struggling with it for a moment, it mashes into 
a hopeless mass. I drop it in disgust and seize a roll ; while I scald my 
tongue with a quick mouthful of coffee. Then I place the roll in my 
mouth while my wife hands me my satchel and tells me she thinks she 
hears the whistle. I plunge madly around looking for my umbrella, then 
I kiss the family good-by as well as I can with a mouth full of roll, and 
dash toward the door. 

Just as I get to the gate I find that I have forgotten my duster and the 
bundle my wife wanted me to take up to the city to her aunt. Charging 
back, I snatch them up and tear down the gravel-walk in a frenzy. I do 
not like to run through the village : it is undignified and it attracts atten- 
tion ; but I walk furiously. I go faster and faster as I get away from the 
main street. "When half the distance is accomplished, I actually do hear 
the whistle ; there can be no doubt about it this time. I long to run, 
but I know that if I do I will excite that abominable speckled dog sitting 
by the sidewalk a little distance ahead of me. Then I really see the train 
coming around the curve close by the depot, and I feel that I must make 
better time ; and I do. The dog immediately manifests an interest in my 
movements. He tears down the street after me, and is speedily joined by five 
or six other dogs, which frolic about my legs and bark furiously. Sundry 
small boys as I go plunging past, contribute to the excitement by whistling 



$2 



LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 



with their fingers, and the men who are at work upon the new meeting- 
house stop to look at me and exchange jocular remarks with each other. I 
do feel ridiculous ; but I must catch that train at all hazards. 

I become desperate when I have to slacken my pace until two or three 
women who are standing upon the sidewalk, discussing the infamous price 
of butter, scatter to let me pass. I arrive within a few yards of the sta- 
tion with my duster flying in the wind, with my coat tails in a horizontal 
position, and with the speckled dog nipping my heels, just as the train 
begins to move. I put on extra pressure, resolving to get the train or 
perish, and I reach it just as the last car is going by. I seize the hand- 
rail ; I am jerked violently around, but finally, after a desperate effort, I 
get upon the step with my knees, and am hauled in by the brakeman, hot, 
dusty and mad, with my trousers torn across the knees, my legs bruised 
and three ribs of my umbrella broken. 

Just as I reach a comfortable seat in the car, the train stops, and then 
backs up on the siding, where it remains for half an hour while the 
engineer repairs a dislocated valve. The anger which burns in my bosom 
as I reflect upon what now is proved to have been the folly of that race is 
increased as I look out of the window and observe the speckled dog 
engaged with his companions in an altercation over a bone. A man who 
permits his dog to roam about the streets nipping the legs of every one 
who happens to go at a more rapid gait than a walk, is unfit for association 
with civilized beings. He ought to be placed on a desert island in mid- 
ocean, and be compelled to stay there. 



LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT, 



LADY DUFFERIN. 



j'M sitting on the stile, Mary, 
Where we sat side by side 
On a bright May morning, long ago, 

When first you were my bride ; 
The corn was springing fresh and green, 
And the lark sang loud and high ; 
J And the red was on your lip, Mary, 
And the love-light in your eye. 

The place is little changed, Mary, 
The day as bright as then ; 



The lark's loud song is in my ear, 
And the corn is green again ; 

But I miss the soft clasp of your hand. 
And your breath warm on my cheek; 

And I still keep listening for the words 
You never more will speak. 

' Tis but a step down yonder lane, 
And the little church stands near — 

The church where we were wed, Mary : 
I see the spire from here. 



THE SNOW-STORM. 



*iO 



But the graveyard lies between, Mary, 
And my step might break your rest — 

For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep 
With your baby on your breast. 




I'm very lonely now, Mary, 

For the poor make no new friends ; 
But, Oh ! they love the better still 

The few our Father sends ! 
And you were all I had, Mary — 

My blessing and my pride ; 
There's nothing left to care for now, 

Since my poor Mary died. 

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, 

That still kept hoping on, 
When the trust in God had left my soul, 

And my arm's young strength was g 
There was comfort ever on your lip, 

And the kind look on your brow — 
I bless you, Mary, for that same, 

Tho' you cannot hear me now. 



I thank you for the patient smile 
When your heart was fit to break — 

When the hunger pain was gnawing there, 
And you did it for my sake ; 

I bless you for the pleasant word, 

When your heart was sad and sore — 

Oh ! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, 

. Where grief can't reach you more'. 

I'm bidding you a long farewell, 

My Mary — kind and true ! 
But I'll not forget you darling, 

In the land I'm going to ; 
They say there's bread and work for aL, 

And the sun shines always there — 
But I'll not forget old Ireland, 

Were it fifty times as fair ! 

And often in those grand old woods 

I'll sit, and shut my eyes, 
And my heart will travel back again 

To the place where Mary lies ; 
And I'll think I see the little stile 

Where we sat side by side, 
And the springing corn, and the bright May 
morn 

When first you were my bride. 



THE SNOW-STORM, 



EMEESON. 



gjSgNNOUNCED by all the trumpets of 
ft the sky, 




Arrives the snow ; and, driving o'er 

the fields, 
Seems nowhere to alight ; the whited 
i. air 

J Hides hills and woods, the river, and the 

heaven, 
And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. 
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's 

feet 
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates 

sit 
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed 
la a tumultuous privacy of storm. 



Come see the north-wind's masonry. 
Out of an unseen quarry, evermore 
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer 
Curves his white bastions with projected roof 
Round every windward stake or tree or door ; 
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work 
So fanciful, so savage ; naught cares he 
For number or proportion. Mockingly, 
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths ; 
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn ; 
Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, 
Maugre the farmer's sighs ; and at the gate 
A tapering turret overtops the worn:. 
And when his hours are numbered, and the 
world 



«4 



THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. 



Is all his own, retiring as he were not, 
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished 
Art 



To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, 
Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work, 
The frolic architecture of the snow. 



THE RIVER TIME. 



BENJAMIN F. TAYLOR. 



>H ! a wonderful stream is the river 
Time, 
As it runs through the realm of tears, 
With a faultless rhythm and a musical 

rhyme 
And a broader sweep and a surge sub- 
1 lime, 

As it blends in the ocean of years ! 

How the winters are drifting like flakes of 
snow, 
And the summers like birds between, 
And the years in the sheaf, how they come 

and they go 
On the river's breast with its ebb and its flow, 
As it glides in the shadow and sheen ! 

There's a magical isle up the river Time, 
Where the softest of airs are playing, 
There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime, 
And a song as sweet as a vesper chime, 
And the Junes with the roses are straying. 

And the name of this isle is the " Long Ago," 

And we bury our treasures there ; 
There' are brows of beauty and bosoms of 
snow, 



There are heaps of dust — oh ! we loved them 
so — 
There are trinkets and tresses of hair. 

There are fragments of songs that nobody 
sings, 
There are parts of an infant's prayer, 
There's a lute unswept and a harp without 

strings, 
There are broken vows and pieces of rings, 
And the garments our loved used to wear. 

There are hands that are waved when the 
fairy shore 
By the fitful mirage is lifted in air, 
And we sometimes hear through the turbu- 
lent roar 
Sweet voices we heard in the days gone be- 
fore, 
When the wind down the river was fair. 

Oh ! remembered for aye be that blessed isle, 
All the day of our life until night ; 

And when evening glows with its beautiful 
smile, 

And our eyes are closing in slumbers awhile, 
May the greenwood of soul be in sight. 



THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. 




FELICIA D. HEMANS. 



gHE stately Homes of England, 
v ~ How beautiful they stand! 

Amidst their tall ancestral trees, 
O'er all the pleasant land ; 
The deer across their greensward 
bound 
Through shade and sunny gleam, 
And the swan glides past them with the 

d«mnd 
vji uome rejoicing stream. 



The merry Homes of England ! 
Around their hearths by night, 
What gladsome looks of household 

love 
Meet in the ruddy light. 
There woman's voice flows forrjj m 

song, 
Or childish tale is told ; 
Or lips move tunefully alone 
Some glorious page of old. 



THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. 



6b 



The blessed Homes of England ! 

How softly on their bowers 

Is laid the holy quietness 

That breathes from Sabbath hours ! 



The cottage Homes of England ! 

By thousands on her plains, 

They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, 

And round the hamlet-fanes. 







AN ENGLISH ANCESTRAL HOMESTEAD. 



Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime 
Floats through their woods at morn ; 
All other sounds, in that still time, 
Of breeze and leaf are born. 



Through glowing orchards forth they pee^ 
Each from its nook of leaves ; 
And fearless there the lowly sleep, 
As the bird beneath their eaves. 



66 



AFRICAN HOSPITALITY. 



The free, fair Homes of England ! 
Long, long in hut and hall, 
May hearts of native proof be reared 
To guard each hallowed wall ! 



And green forever be the groves, 
And bright the flowery sod, 
Where first the child's glad spirit loves 
Its country and its God. 



AFRICAN HOSPITALITJ. 



MUNGO PAKK. 



WAITED more than two hours without having an opportunity of 
crossing the river, during which time the people who had crossed 
carried information to Man-song, the king, that a white man was 
waiting for a passage, and was coming to see him. He immediately 
sent over one of his chief men, who informed me that the king could 
not possibly see me until he knew what had brought me into his 
country ; and that I must not presume to cross the river without the king's 
permission. He therefore advised me to lodge at a distant village, to which 
he pointed, for the night, and said that in the morning he would give me 
further instructions how to conduct myself. 

This was very discouraging. However, as there was no remedy, I set 
off for the village, where I found, to my great mortification, that no 
person would admit me into his house. I was regarded with astonishment 
and fear, and was obliged to sit all day without victuals in the shade of a 
tree ; and the night threatened to be very uncomfortable — for the wind 
rose, and there was great appearance of a heavy rain — and the wild beasts 
are so very numerous in the neighborhood, that I should have been 
under the necessity of climbing up the trees and resting amongst *the 
branches. About sunset, however, as I was preparing to pass the night in 
this manner, and had turned my horse loose that he might graze at 
liberty, a woman, returning from the labors of the field, stopped to 
observe me, and perceiving that I was weary and dejected, inquired into my 
situation, which I briefly explained to her ; whereupon, with looks of great 
compassion, she took up my saddle and bridle, and told me to follow her. 
Having conducted me into her hut, she lighted up a lamp, spread a mat 
on the floor, and told me I might remain there for the night. Finding 
that I was very hungry, she said she would procure me something to eat. 
Sir went out, and returned in a short time with a very fine fish, which, 
having caused to be half broiled upon some embers, she gave me for 
supper. 



THE HEBREW RACE. 67 



The rites of hospitality being thus performed towards a stranger in 
distress, my worthy benefactress — pointing to the mat, and telling me I 
might sleep there without apprehension — called to the female part of her 
family, who had stood gazing on me all the while in fixed astonishment, to 
resume their task of spinning cotton, in which they continued to employ 
themselves a great part of the night. They lightened their labor by songs, 
one of which was composed extempore, for I was myself the subject of it. 
It was sung by one of the young women, the rest joining in a sort of 
chorus. The air was sweet and plaintive, and the words, literally trans- 
lated, were these : " The winds roared, and the rains fell. The poor white 
man, faint and weary, came and sat under our tree. He has no mother to 
bring him milk — no wife to grind his corn. Chorus — Let us pity the 
white man — no mother has he," etc. Trifling as this recital may appear to 
the reader, to a person in my situation the circumstance was affecting in 
the highest degree. I was oppressed by such unexpected kindness, and 
sleep fled from my eyes. In the morning I presented my compassionate 
landlady with two of the four brass buttons which remained on my waist- 
coat — the only recompense I could make her. 



THE HEBREW RACE. 



BENJAMIN DISRAELI. 



fiBAVORED by nature and by nature's God, we produced the lyre of 
IIS David ; we gave you Isaiah and Ezekiel ; they are our Olynthians, 
our Philippics. Favored by nature we still remain ; but in exact 
proportion as we have been favored by nature, we have been per- 
I secuted by man. After a thousand struggles — after acts of heroic 
« courage that Eome has never equalled — deeds of divine patriotism 
that Athens, and Sparta, and Carthage have never excelled — we have en- 
dured fifteen hundred years of supernatural slavery ; during which, every 
device that can degrade or destroy man has been the destiny that we have 
sustained and baffled. The Hebrew child has entered adolescence only to 
learn that he was the Pariah of that ungrateful Europe that owes to him 
the best part of its laws, a fine portion of its literature, all its religion. 

Great poets require a public ; we have been content with the immor- 
tal melodies that we sung more than two thousand years ago by the waters 
of Babylon and wept. They record our triumphs ; they solace our afflic- 



68 



THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE. 



tion. Great orators are the creatures of popular assemblies ; we were 
permitted only by stealth to meet even in our temples. And as for great 
writers, the catalogue is not blank. What are all the school-men, 
Aquinas himself, to Maimonides ? and as for modern philosophy, all 
springs from Spinoza ! But the passionate and creative genius that is the 
nearest link to divinity, and which no human tyranny can destroy, though 
it can divert it ; that should have stirred the hearts of nations by its 
inspired sympathy, or governed senates by its burning eloquence, has 
found a medium for its expression, to which, in spite of your prejudices 
and your evil passions, you have been obliged to bow. The ear, the voice, 
the fancy teeming with combination — the imagination fervent with picture 
and emotion, that came from Caucasus, and which we have preserved 
unpolluted — have endowed us with almost the exclusive privilege of music; 
that science of harmonious sounds which the ancients recognized as most 
divine, and deified in the person of their most beautiful creation. 




THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE. 



BARRY CORNWALL. 




OW many summers, love, 
Have I been thine? 
How many days, thou dove, 

Hast thou been mine ? 
Time, like the winged wind 
When 't bends the flowers, 
Hath left no mark behind, 
To count the hours! 



Some weight of thought, though loath, 

On thee he leaves ; 
Some lines of care round both 

Perhaps he weaves ; 
Some fears, — a soft regret 

For joy scarce known ; 
Sweet looks we half forget ; — 

All else is flown ! 



THE WONDERFUL ONE-HOSS SHAY. 



69 



Ah ! With what thankless heart 

I mourn and sing ! 
Look, where our children start, 

Like sudden spring ! 



With tongues all sweet and low 
Like a pleasant rhyme, 

They tell how much I owe 
To thee and time ! 



SHALL WE KNOW EACH OTHER THERE? 



ANONYMOUS. 




HEN we hear the music ringing 

In the bright celestial dome — 
When sweet angels' voices, singing, 

Gladly bid us welcome home 
To the land or" ancient story, 

Where the spirit knows no care ; 
In that land of life and glory — 

Shall we know each other there ? 



When the holy angels meet us, 

As we go to join their band, 
Shall we know the friends that greet us 

In that glorious spirit land ? 
Shall we see the same eyes shining 

On us as in days of yore ? 
Shall we feel the dear arms twining 

Fondly round us as before ? 



Yes, my earth-worn soul rejoices, 

And my weary heart grows light. 
For the thrilling angel voices 

And the angel faces bright, 
That shall welcome us in heaven, 

Are the loved of long ago ; 
And to them 'tis kindly given 

Thus their mortal friends to know. 

Oh, ye weary, sad, and tossed ones, 
Droop not, faint not by the way ! 

Ye shall join the loved and just ones 
In that land of perfect day. 

Harp-strings, touched by angel fingers, 
Murmured in my raptured ear ; 

Evermore their sweet song lingers — 

" We shall know each other there." 



THE WONDERFUL ONE-HOSS SHA Y. 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 




?AVE you heard of the wonderful 
one-hoss shay, 
That was built in such a logical way 
It ran a hundred years to a day, 
And then, of a sudden, it — Ah, but 

stay, 
I'll tell you what happened, with- 
out delay — 
Scaring the parson into fits, 
Frightening people out of their wits — 
Have you ever heard of that I say ? 



Seventeen hundred and fifty-five, 
Georgius Secundus was then alive — 
Snuffy old drone from the German hive. 
That was the year when Lisbon town 
Saw the earth open and gulp her down, 
And Braddock's army was done so brown, 
Left without a scalp to its crown. 
It was on the terrible Earthquake-day 
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay. 

Now, in building of chaises, I tell you what, 



70 



THE WONDERFUL ONE-HOSS SHAY. 



There is always, somewhere, a weakest spot — 
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, 
In panel or crossbar, or floor, or sill, 
In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace — lurking still, 
Find it somewhere you must and will — 
Above or below, or within or without — 
And that's the reason, beyond a doubt, 
A chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out. 

But the Deacon swore — (as Deacons do, 
With an " I dew vum " or an "I tell yeou ") — 
He would build one shay to beat the taown 
'N' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun'; 
It should be so built that it couldn't break 

daown : — 
" Fur," said the Deacon, " 't's mighty plain 
That the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain 
'N' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain, 

Is only jest 
To make that place uz strong uz the rest." 

So the Deacon inquired of the village folk 
Where he could find the strongest oak, 
That couldn't be split, nor bent, nor broke — 
That was for spoke3, and floor, and sills ; 
He sent for lancewood, to make the thills ; 
The crossbars were ash, from the straightest 

trees ; 
The panels of white-wood, that cuts like 

cheese, 
But lasts like iron for things like these ; 
The hubs from logs from the " Settler's 

ellum" — 
Last of its timber — they couldn't sell 'em — 
Never an ax had seen their chips, 
And the wedges flew from between their lips, 
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery -tips ; 
Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, 
Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too, 
Steel of the finest, bright and blue ; 
Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide; 
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide, 
Found in the pit where the tanner died. 
That was the way he " put her through." 
"There!" said the Deacon, "naow she'll 

dew!" 

Do ! I tell you, I rather guess 

She was a wonder, and nothing less ! 

Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, 



Deacon and deaconess dropped away. 
Children and grandchildren — where were^ 

they ? 
But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay, 
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day ! 

Eighteen Hundred — it came, and found 
The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound- 
Eighteen hundred, increased by ten — 
" Hahnsum kerridge " they called it then. 
Eighteen hundred and twenty came — 
Running as usual — much the same. 
Thirty and forty at last arrive ; 
And then came fifty — and Fifty-five. 

Little of all we value here 

Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year 

Without both feeling and looking queer. 

In fact there's nothing that keeps its youth,. 

So far as I know, but a tree and truth. 

(This is a moral that runs at large ; 

Take it. — You're welcome. — no extra charge.)* 

First of November — the Earthquake-day — 

There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay„ 

A general flavor of mild decay — 

But nothing local, as one may say, 

There couldn't be — for the Deacon's art 

Had made it so like in every part 

That there wasn't a chance for one to start. 

For the wheels were just as strong as the? 

thills, 
And the floor was just as strong as the sills,. 
And the panels just as strong as the floor, 
And the whipple-tree neither less nor more,. 
And the back crossbar as strong as the fore,.. 
And spring, and axle, and hub encore. 
And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt 
In another hour it will be worn out ! 

First of November, 'Fifty-five ! 

This morning the parson takes a drive. 

Now, small boys, get out of the way ! 

Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay, 

Drawn by a rat- tailed, ewe-necked bay. 

" Huddup !" said the parson. — Off went they.. 

The parson was working his Sunday text — - 
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed 
At what the — Moses — was coming next. 
All at once the horse stood still, 



MR. PICKWICK IN A DILEMMA. 



71 



Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill. 

First a shiver, and then a thrill, 
Then something decidedly like a spill — 
And the parson was sitting upon a rock, 
At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house 

clock — 
Just the hour of the Earthquake shock ! 

What do you think the parson found, 



When he got up and stared around ? 
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, 
As if it had- been to the mill and ground 1 
You see, of course, if you're not a dunce, 
How it went to pieces all at once — 
All at once, and nothing first — 
Just as the bubbles do when they burst. 
End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. 
Logic is Logic. That's all I say. 




AMERICAN ARISTOCRACY. 



JOHN a. SAXE. 




F all the notable things on earth, 
The queerest one is pride of birth 
Among our " fierce democracy !" 
A bridge across a hundred years, 
Without a prop to save it from sneers, 
Not even a couple of rotten peers, — 
A thing for laughter, fleers, and jeers, 
Is American aristocracy ! 



English and Irish, French and Spanish, 
Germans, Italians, Dutch and Danish, 
Crossing their veins until they vanish 
In one conglomeration ! 



So subtle a tangle of blood, indeed, 
No Heraldry Harvey will ever succeed 
In finding the circulation. 

Depend upon it, my snobbish friend, 
Your family thread you can't ascend, 
Without good reason to apprehend 
You may find it waxed, at the farther 
end, 

By some plebeian vocation : 
Or, worse than that, your boasted line 
May end in a loop of stronger twine, 

That plagued some worthy relation ! 



MR. PICKWICK IN A DILEMMA. 




CHARLES DICKENS. 



R. PICKWICK'S apartments in Goswell street, although on a 
limited scale, were not' only of a very neat and comfortable 
description, but peculiarly adapted for the residence of a man of 
his genius and observation. His sitting-room was the first floor 
front, his bed-room was the second floor front ; and thus, whether 



72 MR. PICKWICK IN A DILEMMA. 

he was sitting at his desk in the parlor, or standing before the dressing- 
glass in his dormitory, he had an equal opportunity of contemplating 
human nature in all the numerous phases it exhibits, in that not more 
populous than popular thoroughfare. 

His landlady, Mrs. Bardell — the relict and sole executrix of a de- 
ceased custom-house officer — was a comely woman of bustling manners 
and agreeable appearance, with a natural genius for cooking, improved by 
study and long practice into an exquisite talent. There were no children, 
no servants, no- fowls. The only other inmates of the house were a large 
man and a small boy ; the first a lodger, the second a production of Mrs. 
Bardell's. The large man was always at home precisely at ten o'clock at 
night, at which hour he regularly condensed himself into the limits of a 
dwarfish French bedstead in the back parlor ; and the infantine sports and 
gymnastic exercises of Master Bardell were exclusively confined to the 
neighboring pavements and gutters. Cleanliness and quiet reigned 
throughout the house ; and in it Mr. Pickwick's will was law. 

To any one acquainted with these points of the domestic economy of 
the establishment, and conversant with the admirable regulation of 
Mr. Pickwick's mind, his appearance and behaviour, on the morning 
previous to that which had been fixed upon for the journey to Eatansville, 
would have been most mysterious and unaccountable. He paced the room 
to and fro with hurried steps, popped his head out of the window at inter- 
vals of about three minutes each, constantly referred to his watch, and 
exhibited many other manifestations of impatience, very unusual with 
him. It was evident that something of great importance was in contem- 
plation ; but what that something was, not even Mrs. Bardell herself had 
been able to discover. 

" Mrs. Bardell," said Mr. Pickwick, at last, as that amiable female 
approached the termination of a prolonged dusting of the apartment. 
" Sir," said Mrs. Bardell. " Your little boy is a very long time gone." "Why, 
it's a good long way to the Borough, sir," remonstrated Mrs. Bardell. 
"Ah," said Mr. Pickwick, "very true; so it is." Mr. Pickwick relapsed 
into silence, and Mrs. Bardell resumed her dusting. 

"Mrs. Bardell," said Mr. Pickwick, at the expiration of a few 
minutes. " Sir," said Mrs. Bardell again, " Do you think it's a much 
greater expense to keep two people, than to keep one ?" " La, Mr. Pick- 
wick," said Mrs. Bardell, coloring up to the very border of her cap, as she 
fancied she observed a species of matrimonial twinkle in the eyes of her 
lodger; "La, Mr. Pickwick, what a question!" "Well, but do you?" 
inquired Mr. Pickwick. " That depends," said Mrs. Bardell, approaching 



MR. PICKWICK IN A DILEMMA. 73 

the duster very near to Mr. Pickwick's elbow, which was planted on the 
table ; " that depends a good deal upon the person, you know, Mr. Pick- 
wick ; and whether it's a saving and careful person, sir." " That's very 
true," said Mr. Pickwick ; " but the person I have in my eye (here he 
looked very hard at Mrs. Bardell) I think possesses these qualities ; and 
has, moreover, a considerable knowledge of the world, and a great deal of 
sharpness, Mrs. Bardell, which may be of material use to me." 

" La, Mr. Pickwick," said Mrs. Bardell, the crimson rising to her cap- 
border again. " I do," said Mr. Pickwick, growing energetic, as was his 
wont in speaking of a subject which interested him. "I do indeed; and 
to tell you the truth, Mrs. Bardell, I have made up my mind." " Dear 
me, sir," exclaimed Mrs. Bardell. " You'll think it not very strange now," 
said the amiable Mr. Pickwick, with a good-humored glance at his com- 
panion, " that I never consulted you about this matter, and never men- 
tioned it, till I sent your little boy out this morning — eh ?" 

Mrs. Bardell could only reply by a look. She had long worshipped 
Mr. Pickwick at a distance, but here she was, all at once, raised to a 
pinnacle to which her wildest and most extravagant hopes had never dared 
to aspire. Mr. Pickwick was going to propose — a deliberate plan, too — ■ 
sent her little boy to the Borough to get him out of the way — how 
thoughtful — how considerate ! — " Well," said Mr. Pickwick, " what do you 
think ?" " Oh, Mr. Pickwick," said Mrs. Bardell, trembling with agitation 
"you're very kind, sir." "It will save you a great deal of trouble, won't 
it ?" said Mr. Pickwick. " Oh, I never thought anything of the trouble, 
sir," replied Mrs. Bardell; "and of course, I should take more trouble to 
please you then than ever ; but it is so kind of you, Mr. Pickwick, to have 
so much consideration- for my loneliness." 

"Ah to be sure," said Mr. Pickwick; " I never thought of that. 
When I am in town, you'll always have somebody to sit with you. To 
be sure, so you will." "I'm sure I ought to be a very happy woman," 
said Mrs. Bardell. "And your little boy — " said Mr. Pickwick. " Bless 
his heart," interposed Mrs. Bardell, with a maternal sob. " He, too, will 
have a companion," resumed Mr. Pickwick, " a lively one, who'll teach him, 
I'll be bound, more tricks in a week, than he would ever learn, in a year.'* 
And Mr. Pickwick smiled placidly. 

" Oh, you dear — " said Mrs. Bardell. Mr. Pickwick started. " Oh 
you kind, good, playful dear/' said Mrs. Bardell ; and without more ado, 
she rose from her chair, and flung her arms round Mr. Pickwick's neck, 
with a cataract of tears and a chorus of sobs. " Bless my soul," cried the 
astonished Mr. Pickwick; — "Mrs. Bardell, my good woman — dear me, 



74 MR. PICKWICK IN A DILEMMA. 



what a situation — pray consider. Mrs. Bardell, don't — if anybody should 
come—" "Oh, let them come," exclaimed Mrs. Bardell, frantically; 
"I'll never leave you — dear, kind, good, soul: " and with these words, 
Mrs. Bardell clung the tighter. 

" Mercy upon me," said Mr. Pickwick, struggling violently, " I hear 
somebody coming up the stairs. Don't, don't, there's a good creature, 
don't." But entreaty and remonstrance were alike unavailing ; for Mrs. 
Bardell had fainted in Mr. Pickwick's arms ; and before he could gain 
time to deposit her on a chair, Master Bardell entered the room, ushering 
in Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass, Mr. Pickwick was 
struck motionless and speechless. He stood with his lovely burden in his 
arms, gazing vacantly on the countenances of his friends, without the 
slightest attempt at recognition or explanation. They, in their turn, 
stared at him ; and Master Bardell, in his turn, stared at everybody. 

The astonishment of the Pickwickians was so absorbing, and the 
perplexity of Mr. Pickwick was so extreme, that they might have 
remained in exactly the same relative situation until the suspended anima- 
tion of the lady was restored, had it not been for a most beautiful and 
touching expression of filial affection on the part of her youthful son. 
Clad in a tight suit of corduroy, spangled with brass buttons of a very 
considerable size, he at first stood at the door astounded and uncertain ; 
but by degrees, the impression that his mother must have suffered some 
personal damage, pervaded his partially developed mind, and considering 
Mr. Pickwick the aggressor, he set up an appalling and semi-earthly kind 
of howling, and butting forward, with his head, commenced assailing that 
immortal gentleman about the back and legs, with such blows and pinches 
as the strength of his arm, and the violence of his excitement allowed. 

tl Take this little villain away," said the agonized Mr. Pickwick, 
"he's mad." " What is the matter?" said the three tongue-tied Pick- 
wickians. " I don't know," replied Mr. Pickwick, pettishly. " Take away 
the boy — (here Mr. Winkle carried the interesting boy, screaming and 
struggling, to the farther end of the apartment.) Now help me to lead 
this woman down stairs. " Oh, I'm better now," said Mrs. Bardell, 
faintly. " Let me lead you down stairs," said the ever gallant Mr. Tup- 
man. " Thank you, sir — thank you ;" exclaimed Mrs. Bardell, hysterically. 
And down stairs she was led, accordingly, accompanied by her affectionate 
son. 

" I cannot conceive " — said Mr. Pickwick, when his friend returned — 
u I cannot conceive what has been the matter with that woman. I had 
merely announced to her my intention of keeping a man-servant, when 



PRAISE OF THE SEA. 75 



she fell into the extraordinary paroxysm in which you found her. Very 
extraordinary, thing." " Very," said his three friends. " Placed me in 
such an extremely awkward situation/' continued Mr. Pickwick. " Very;" 
was the reply of his followers, as they coughed slightly, and looked 
dubiously at each other. 

This behaviour was not lost upon Mr. Pickwick. He remarked their 
incredulity. They evidently suspected him. — " There is a man in the 
passage now," said Mr. Tupman. " It's the man that I spoke to you 
about/' said Mr. Pickwick, " I sent for him to the Borough this morning. 
Have the goodness to call him up, Snodgrass." 



PRAISE OF THE SEA. 



SAMUEL PUECHAS. 



..cfe 



W/jm^ God hath combined the sea and land into one globe, so their joint 
|*lll combination and mutual assistance is necessary to secular happi- 
-*^^b ness and glory. The sea covereth one-half of this patrimony of 
man, whereof God set him in possession when he said, " Replenish 
the earth, and subdue it, and have dominion over the fish of the 
sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth 
upon the earth." .... Thus should man at once lose half his inheritance, 
if the art of navigation did not enable him to manage this untamed beast, 
and with the bridle of the winds and saddle of his shipping to make him 
serviceable. Now for the services of the sea, they are innumerable : it is 
the great purveyor of the world's commodities to our use ; conveyer of the 
excess of rivers ; uniter, by traffic, of all nations : it presents the eye with 
diversified colors and motions, and is, as it j^ere, with rich brooches, 
adorned with various islands. It is an open fielcrfor merchandise in peace ; 
a pitched field for the most dreadful fights of war ; yields diversity of fish 
and fowl for diet ; materials for wealth, medicine for health, simples for 
medicines, pearls, and other jewels for ornament ; amber and ambergris 
for delight ; " the wonders of the Lord in the deep " for instruction, variety 
of creatures for use, multiplicity of natures for contemplation, diversity of 
accidents for admiration, compendiousness to the way, to full bodies health- 
ful evacuation, to the thirsty earth fertile moisture, to distant friends pleasant 
meeting, to weary persons delightful refreshing, to studious and religious 
minds a map of knowledge, mystery of temperance, exercise of continence ; 



76 



PRAISE OF THE SEA. 



school of prayer, meditation, devotion and sobriety ; refuge to the dis- 
tressed, portage to the merchant, passage to the traveller, customs to the 




BARRIERS OF THE SEA. 



prince, springs, lakes, rivers to the earth; it hath on it tempests and 
calms to chastise the sins, to exercise the faith of seamen ; manifold 



WAITING BY THE GATE. 



77 



•affections in itself, to affect and stupefy the subtlest philosopher ; sustaineth 
movable fortresses for the soldier ; maintaineth (as in our island) a wall 
of defence and watery garrison to guard the state ; entertains the sun with 
vapors, the moon with obsequiousness, the stars also with a natural looking- 
glass, the sky with clouds, the air with temperateness, the soil with sup- 
pleness, the rivers with tides, the hills with moisture, the valleys with 
fertility : containeth most diversified matter for meteors, most multiform 
shapes, most various, numerous kinds, most immense, difformed, deformed, 
unformed monsters ; once (for why should I longer detain you ?) the sea 
yields action to the body, meditation to the mind, the world to the world, 
all parts thereof to each part, by this art of arts, navigation. 



WAITING BY THE GATE. 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 




|l|MESIDE the massive gateway built up 



in years gone by, 
Upon whose top the clouds in eter- 
nal shadow lie, 
"While streams the evening sunshine 

on the quiet wood and lea, 
I stand and calmly wait until the 
hinges turn for me. 



The tree tops faintly rustle beneath the 

breeze's flight, 
A soft soothing sound, yet it whispers of the 

night ; 
I hear the woodthrush piping one mellow 

descant more, 
.And scent the flowers that blow when the 

heat of day is o'er. 

Behold the portals- open and o'er the thres- 
hold, now, 

There steps a wearied one with pale and fur- 
rowed brow ; 

His count of years is full, his alloted task is 
wrought ; 

He passes to his rest from a place that needs 
him not. 

In sadness, then, I ponder how quickly fleets 
the hour 



Of human strength and action, man's cour- 
age and his power. 

I muse while still the woodthrush sings 
down the golden day, 

And as I look and listen the sadness wears 
away. 

Again the hinges turn, and a youth, depart- 
ing throws 

A look of longing backward, and sorrowfully 
goes; 

A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from 
her hair, 

Moves wonderfully away from amid the 
young and fair. 

Oh, glory of our race that so suddenly de- 
cays ! 

Oh, crimson flush of morning, that darkens 
as we gaze ! 

Oh, breath of summer blossoms that on the 
restless air 

Scatters a moment's sweetness and flies we 
know not where. 

I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown 
and then withdrawn ; 

But still the sun shines round me ; the even- 
ing birds sing on ; 



78 



THE HOUSEKEEPER'S SOLILOQUY. 



And I again am soothed, and beside the an- 
cient gate, 

In this soft evening sunlight, I calmly stand 
and wait. 

Once more the gates are opened, an infant 

group go out, 
The sweet smile quenched forever, and stilled 

the sprightly shout. 
Oh, frail, frail tree of life, that upon the 

greensward strews 
Its fair young buds unopened, with every 

wind that blows ! 

So from every region, so enter side by side, 
The strong and faint of spirit, the meek and 

men of pride, 
Steps of earth's greatest, mightiest, between 

those pillars gray, 



And prints of little feet, that mark the dust- 
away. 

And some approach the threshold whose^ 

looks are blank with fear, 
And some whose temples brighten with joy 

are drawing near, 
As if they saw dear faces, and caught the 

gracious eye 
Of Him, the Sinless Teacher, who came for 

us to die. 
I mark the joy, the terrors; yet these, with- 
in my heart, 
Can neither wake the dread nor the longing; 

to depart ; 
And, in the sunshine streaming of quiet wood. 

and lea, 
I stand and calmly wait until the hinges. 

turn for me. 



THE HOUSEKEEPER'S SOLILOQUY. 



MES. F. D. GAGE. 




ERE'S a big washing to be done — 
One pair of hands to do it — 
Sheets, shirts and stockings, coats 
and pants, 
How will I e'er get through it ? 



Dinner to get for six or more, 
No loaf left o'er from Sunday ; 
And baby cross as he can live — 
He's always so on Monday. 

'Tis time the meat was in the pot, 
The bread was worked for baking, 

The clothes were taken from the boil — 
Oh dear ! the baby's waking ! 

Hush, baby dear ! there, hush-sh-sh ! 

I wish he'd sleep a little, 
'Till I could run and get some wood, 

To hurry up the kettle. 

Oh dear ! oh dear ! if P comes home, 

And finds things in this pother, 

He'll just begin and tell me all 
About his tidy mother ! 



How nice her kitchen used to be, 

Her dinner always ready 
Exactly when the noon-bell rang — 

Hush, hush, dear little Freddy ! 

And then will come some hasty words,. 

Right out before I'm thinking — 
They say that hasty words from wives. 

Set sober men to drinking. 

Now is not that a great idea, 

That men should take to sinning, 

Because a weary, half-sick wife, 
Can't always smile so winning ? 

When I was young I used to earn 

My living without trouble, 
Had clothes and pocket money, too, 

And hours of leisure double, 

I never dreamed of such a fate, 
When I, a-lass ! was courted — 
Wife, mother, nurse, seamstress, cook, house- 
keeper, chambermaid, laundress, dairywo- 
man, and scrub generally, doing the work - 
of six, 

For the sake of being supported ! 



SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE. 



79 




SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE. 




JOHN G. WHITTIER. 



\F all the rides since the birth of time, 
Told in story or sung in rhyme, — 
On Apnleius's Golden Ass, 
Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass, 
£ Witch astride of a human hack, 
el Islam's prophet on Al-Borak, — 
The strangest ride that ever was sped 
"Was Ireson's out from Marblehead ! 
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart 
By the women of Marblehead ! 

Body of turkey, head of owl, 
Wings adroop like a rained-on fowl, 
Feathered and ruffled in every part, 
Skipper Ireson stood in the cart. 
Scores of women, old and young, 
Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue, 
Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane, 



Shouting and singing the shrill refrain : 
" Here's Flud Oirson, for his horrd horrt, 
Torr'd an futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt, 
By the women o' Marble'ead!" 

Wrinkled scolds, with hands on hips, 

Girls in bloom of cheek and lips, 

Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase 

Bacchus round some antique vase. 

Brief of skirt, with ankles bare, 

Loose of kerchief and loose of hair, 

With conch-shells blowing and fish-horns' 

twang, 
Over and over the Maenads sang : 

" Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, 
Torrd an' futhered an' corr'd in a corrt 
By the women o' Marble'ead ! 

Small pity for him ! — he sailed away 
From a leaking ship, in Chaleur Bay, — 



30 



SKIPPER IEESON'S BIDE. 



Sailed away from a sinking wreck, 
With his own towns-people on her deck ! 
" Lay by ! lay by !" they called to him, 
Back he answered, " Sink or swim ! 
Brag of your catch of fish again !" 
And off he sailed through fog and rain ! 
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 



Sweetly along the Salem road 

Bloom of orchard and lilac showed, 

Little the wicked skipper knew 

Of the fields so green and the sky so blue, 

Riding there in his sorry trim, 

Like an Indian idol, glum and grim, 

Scarcely he seemed the sound to hear, 




Tarred and feathered and carried in a 

cart 
By the women of Marblehead ! 

Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur 
That wreck shall lie forevermore, 
Mother and sister, wife and maid, 
Looked from the rocks of Marblehead 
Over the moaning and rainy sea, — 
Looked for the coming that might not be ! 
What did the winds and the sea-birds say 
Of the cruel captain who sailed away ? — 
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart 
By the women of Marblehead ! 

Through the street, on either side, 
Up flew windows, doors swung wide ; 
Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray, 
Treble lent to the fish-horn's bray, 
Sea-worn grandsires, cripple bound, 
Hulks of old sailors run aground, 
Shook head and fist, and hat, and cane, 
And cracked with curses the hoarse refrain : 
" Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, 
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt 
By the women o' Marble'ead I" 



Of voices shouting, far and near : 

" Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt 
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt 
By the women o' Marble'ead ! 

" Hear me, neighbors !" at last he cried, — 
" What to me is this noisy ride ? 
What is the shame that clothes the skin, 
To the nameless horror that lives within ? 
Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck, 
And hear a cry from a reeling deck ! 
Hate me and curse me, — I only dread 
The hand of God and the face of the dead !" 
Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart 
By the women of Marblehead ! 

The wife of the skipper lost at sea 
Said, " God has touched him ! why should we ?'* 
Said an old wife, mourning her only son, 
" Cut the rogue's tether, and let him run !" 
So with soft relentings, and rude excuse, 
Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose, 
And gave him a cloak to hide him in, 
And left him alone with his shame and sin, 
Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart 
By the women of Marblehead ! 



FULPIT ORATORY. 31 



PULPIT ORATORY. 



DANIEL DOUGHERTY. 




iHE daily work of the pulpit is not to convince the judgment, but to 
touch the heart. We all know it is our duty to love our Creator 
and serve him, but the aim is to make mankind do it. It is not 
enough to convert our belief to Christianity, but to turn our 
souls towards God. Therefore the preacher will find in the 
armory of the feelings the w T eapons with which to defend against sin, 
assail Satan and achieve the victory, the fruits of which shall never perish. 
And oh, how infinite the variety, how inexhaustible the resources, of this 
armory ! how irresistible the weapons, when grasped by the hand of a 
master ! 

Every passion of the human heart, every sentiment that sways the 
soul, every action or character in the vast realms of history or the bound- 
less world about us, the preacher can summon obedient to his command. 
He can paint in vivid colors the last hours of the just man — all his temp- 
tations and trials over, he smilingly sinks to sleep, to awa"ke amid the 
glories of the eternal morn. He can tell the pampered man of ill-gotten 
gold that the hour draws nigh when he shall feel the cold and clammy- 
hand of Death, and that all his wealth cannot buy him from the worm. 
He can drag before his hearers the slimy hypocrite, tear from his heart 
his secret crimes and expose his damnable villainy to the gaze of all. Ho 
can appeal to the purest promptings of the Christian heart, the love of God 
and hatred of sin. He can depict the stupendous and appalling truth 
that the Saviour from the highest throne in heaven descended, and here, 
on earth, assumed the form of fallen man, and for us died on the cross- 
like a malefactor. He can startle and awe-strike his hearers as he descants 
on the terrible justice of the Almighty in hurling from heaven Lucifer 
and his apostate legions ; in letting loose the mighty waters until they 
swallowed the wide earth and every living thing, burying the highest 
mountains in the universal deluge, shadows of the- coming of that awful 
day for which all other days are made. He can roll back the sky as a 
scroll, and, ascending to heaven, picture its ecstatic joys, where seraphic 
voices tuned in celestial harmony sing their canticles of praise. He can 
dive into the depths of hell and describe the howling and gnashing of teeth 
of the damned, chained in its flaming caverns, ever burning yet never con- 
sumed. He can, in a word, in imagination, assume the sublime attributes 
of the Deity, and, as the supreme mercy and goodness, make tears of 



S2 



THE WIDOW BEDOTT'S POETRY. 



contrition start and stream from every eye ; or, armed with the dread 
prerogatives of the inexorable judge, with the lightning of his wrath 
strike unrepentant souls until sinners sink on their knees and quail as 
Felix quailed before St. Paul. 



BABY. 



GEORGE MACDONALD. 



HERE did you come from, baby 

m dear? 

if£y^p Out of the everywhere into here. 

\W % 

t Where did you get those eyes so 

blue? 
Out of the sky as I came through. 




What makes the light in them sparkle and 

spin? 
Some of the starry spikes left in. 



Where did you get that little tear ? 
I found it waiting when I got here. 

What makes your forehead so smooth and 

high? 
A soft hand stroked it as I went by. 

What makes your cheek like a warm white 

rose? 
I saw something better than any one knows. 

Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss ? 
Three angels gave me at once a kiss. 

Where did you get this pearly ear? 
God spoke and it came out to hear. 

Where did you get those arms and hands ? 
Love made itself into bonds and bands. 

Feet, whence did you come, you darling 

things ? 
From the same box as the cherubs' wings. 

How did they all just come to be you ? 
God thought about me, and so I grew. 

But how did you come to us, you dear ? 
God thought about you, and so I am here. 



■■ ctffr . 




THE WIDOW BEDOTT'S POETRY. 



F. M. WHITCHER. 



ES, — he was one o' the best men that ever trod shoe-leather, husband 
was, though Miss Jinkins says (she 'twas Poll Bingham,) she says, 
I never found it out till after he died, but that's the consarndest 
lie that ever was told, though it's jest a piece with everything else 



THE WIDOW BEDOTT'S POETRY. 83 



she says about me. I guess if everybody could see the poitry I writ to 
his memory, nobody wouldn't think I dident set store by him. Want 
to hear it ? Well, I'll see if I can say it ; it ginerally affects me wonder- 
fully, seems to harrer up my feelin's ; but I'll try. Dident know I ever 
writ poitry ? How you talk ! used to make lots on't ; haint so much late 
years. I remember once when Parson Potter had a bee, I sent him an 
amazin' great cheeze, and writ a piece o' poitry, and pasted on top on't. 

It says : 

Teach him for to proclaim 

Salvation to the folks ; 
No occasion give for any blame, 

Nor wicked people's jokes. 

And so it goes on, but I guess I won't stop to say the rest on't now, seein' 
there's seven and forty verses. 

Parson Potter and his wife was wonderfully pleased with it ; used to 
sing it to the tune o' Haddem. But I was gwine to tell the one I made 
in relation to husband; it begins as follers : — 

He never jawed in all his life, 

He never was onkind, — i 

And (tho' I say it that was his wife) 

Such men you seldom find. 

(That's as true as the Scrip turs ; I never knowedhim to say a harsh word.) 

I never changed my single lot, — 
I thought 'twould be a sin — ■ 

(Though widder Jinkins says it's because I never had a chance.) Now 
'tain't for me to say whether I ever had a numerous number o' chances or 
not, but there's them livin' that might tell if they wos a mind to ; why, 
this poitry was writ on account of being joked about Major Coon, three 
years after husband died. I guess the ginerality o' folks knows what was 
the nature o' Major Coon's fe'elin's towards me, tho' his wife and Miss 
Jinkins does say I tried to ketch him. The fact is, Miss Coon feels won- 
derfully cut up 'cause she knows the Major took her " Jack at a pinch," 
— seein' he couldent get such as he wanted, he took such as he could get, 
— but I goes on to say — 

I never changed my single lot, 

I thought 'twould be a sin, — 
For I thought so much o' Deacon Bedott, 
I never got married agin. 



84 THE WIDOW BEDOTT'S POETRY. 



If ever a hasty word he spoke, 

His anger dident last, 
But vanished like tobacker smoke 

Afore the wintry blast. 

And since it was my lot to be 

The wife of such a man, 
Tell the men that's after me 

To ketch me if they can. 

If I was sick a single jot, 
He called the doctor in — 

That's a fact, — he used to be scairt to death if anything ailed me. Now 
only jest think, — widder Jinkins told Sam Pendergrasses wife (she 'twas 
Sally Smith) that she guessed the deacon dident set no great store by me, 
or he wouldent a went off to confrence meetin' when I was down with the 
fever. The truth is, they couldent git along without him no way. Parson 
Potter seldom went to confrence meetin', and when he wa'n't there, who 
was ther' pray tell, that knowed enough to take the lead if husband dident 
do it? Deacon Kenipe hadent no gift, and Deacon Crosby hadent no 
inclination, and so it all come onto Deacon Bedott, — and he was always 
ready and willin' to do his duty, you know ; as long as he was able to 
stand on his legs he continued to go to confrence meetin' ; why, I've 
knowed that man to go when he couldent scarcely crawl on account o' the 
pain in the spine of his back. 

He had a wonderful gift, and he wa'n't a man to keep his talents hid 
up in a napkin, — so you see 'twas from a sense o' duty he went when I 
was sick, whatever Miss Jinkins may say to the contrary. But where 
was I ? Oh !— 

If I was sick a single jot, 

He called the doctor in — 
I sot so much store by Deacon Bedott 

I never got married agin. 

A wonderful tender heart he had, 

That felt for all mankind, — ■ 
It made him feel amazin' bad 

To see the world so blind. 

Whiskey and rum he tasted not — 

That's as true as the Scripturs, — but if you'll believe it, Betsy, Ann 
Kenipe told my Melissy that Miss Jinkins said one day to their house> 



THE WIDOW BEDOTT'S POETRY. 85 

how't she'd seen Deacon Bedott high, time and agin ! did you ever ! 
Well, I'm glad nobody don't pretend to mind anything she says. I've 
knowed Poll Bingham from a gal, and she never knowed how to speak the 
truth —besides she always had a partikkeler spite against husband and me, 
and between us tew I'll tell you why if you won't mention it, for I make 
it a pint never to say nothin' to injure nobody. Well, she was a ravin'- 
distracted after my husband herself, but it's a long story, I'll tell you about 
it some other time, and then you'll know why widder Jinkins is etarnally 
runnin' me down. See, — where had I got to? Oh, I remember 
now, — 

Whiskey and rum he tasted not, — 

He thought it was a sin, — 
I thought so much o' Deacon Bedott 

I never got married agin. 

But now he's dead ! the thought is killin', 

My grief I can't control- 
He never left a single shillin' 

His widder to console. 

But that wa'n't his fault — he was so out o' health for a number o' year aforer 
he died, it ain't to be wondered at he dident lay up nothin' — however, 
it dident give him no great oneasiness, — he never cared much for airthly 
riches, though Miss Pendergrass says she heard Miss Jinkins say Deacon 
Bedott was as tight as the skin on his back, — begrudged folks their vittals 
when they came to his house ! did you ever ! why, he was the hull-souldest 
man I ever see in all my born days. If I'd such a husband as Bill Jinkins 
was, I'd hold my tongue about my neighbors' husbands. He was a dretful 
mean man, used to git drunk every day of his life, and he had an awful high 
temper, — used to swear like all possest when he got mad, — and I've heard 
my husband say, (and he wa'n't a man that ever said anything that wa'n't 
true), — I've heard him say Bill Jinkins would cheat his own father out of 
his eye teeth if he had a chance. Where was I? Oh! " His widder to 
console," — ther ain't but one more verse, 'tain't a very lengthy poim. 
When Parson Potter read it, he says to me, says he, — " What did you stop 
so soon for?" — but Miss Jinkins told the Crosby's she thought I'd better 
a' stopt afore I'd begun, — she's a purty critter to talk so, I must say. I'd 
like to see some poitry o' hern, — I guess it would be astonishin' stuff; and 
mor'n all that, she said there wa'n't a word o' truth in the hull on't, — said 
I never cared tuppence for the deacon. What an everlastin' lie ! Why, 
when he died, I took it so hard I went deranged, and took on so for a spell 



86 



BINGEN ON THE RHINE. 



they was afraid they should have to send me to a Lunattic Arsenal. But 
that's a painful subject, I won't dwell on't. I conclude as toilers : — 

I'll never change my single lot, — 

I think 'twould be a sin, — 
The inconsolable widder o' Deacon Bedott 

Don't intend to get married agin. 

Excuse my cryin' — my feelin's always overcomes me so when I say that 
poitry — O-o-o-o-o-o ! 



BINGEN ON THE RHINE. 



CAROLINE E. . NORTON. 



WlWb SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in 
mk Algiers, 

There was lack of woman's nursing, 

there was dearth of woman's tears ; 

el But a comrade stood beside him, 

| while his life-blood ebbed away, 

And bent, with pitying glances, to hear 

what he might say. 

The dying soldier faltered, as he took that 

comrade's hand, 
And he said, " I never more shall see my 

own, my native land , 
Take a message, and a token, to some distant 

friends of mine, 
.For I was born at Bmgen — at Bingen on the 
Rhine. 

" Tell my brothers and companions, when 

they meet and crowd around 
To 'hear my mournful story in the pleasant 

vineyard ground, 
That we fought the battle bravely, and when 

the day was done, 
Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, beneath 

the setting sun ; 
And midst the dead and dying were some 

grown old in wars, 
The death-wound on their gallant breasts, 

the last of many scars ; 
But some were young, and suddenly beheld 

life's morn decline 
And one had come from Bingen — fair Bingen 
on the Rhine ! 



" Tell my mother that her other sons shall 

comfort her old age, 
And I was aye a truant bird, that thought 

his home a cage : 
For my father was a soldier, and even as a 

child 
My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of 

struggles fierce and wild ; 
And when he died, and left us to divide his 

scanty hoard, 
I let them take whate'er they would but kept 

my father's sword, 
And with boyish love I hung it where the 

bright light used to shine, 
On the cottage-wall at Bingen — calm Bingen 

on the Rhine ' 

" Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob 

with drooping head, 
When the troops come marching home again, 

with glad gallant tread ; 
But to look upon them proudly, with a calm 

and steadfast eye, 
For her brother was a soldier too, and not 

afraid to die ; 
And if a comrade seek her love, 1 ask her in 

my name 
To listen to him kindly, without regret or 

shame ; 
And to hang the old sword in its place (my 

fathers sword and mine,) 
For the honor of old Bingen — dear Bingen 

on the Rhine ! 



SONG OF THE DECANTER. 



87 



" There's another, not a sister ; in the happy- 
days gone by, 

You'd have known her by the merriment 
that sparkled in her eye ; 

Too innocent for coquetry, — too fond for idle 
scorning,— 

Oh ! friend, I fear the lightest heart makes 
sometimes heaviest mourning ! 

Tell her the last night of my life (for ere the 
moon be risen, 

My body will be out of pain — my soul be out 
of prison,) 

I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yel- 
low sunlight shine 

On the vine-clad hills of Bingen — fair Bin- 
gen on the Rhine ! 

" I saw the blue Rhine sweep along — I heard, 

or seemed to hear, 
The German songs we used to sing, in chorus 

sweet and clear ; - 
And down the pleasant river, and up the 

slanting hill, 
The echoing chorus sounded, through the 

evening calm and still; 
And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we 

passed, with friendly talk, 
Down many a path beloved of yore, and well 

remembered walk, 
And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly 

in mine : 
But we'll meet no more at Bingen — loved 

Bingen on the Rhine !" 

His voice grew faint and hoarse — his grasp 

was childish weak, — 
His eyes put on a dying look, — he sighed and 

ceased to speak : 
His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark 

of life had fled ! 
The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land — 

was dead ! 
And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly 

she looked down 
On the red sand of the battle-field with 

bloody corses strown ; 
Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale 

light seemed to shine, 
As it shone on distant Bingen — fair Bingen 

on the Rhine ! 



SONG OF THE DECANTER. 

There was an old decanter, 
and its mouth was gaping 
wide ; the rosy wine 
had ebbed away 
and left 
its crys- 
tal side ; 
and the wind 
went humming, 
humming; 
up and 
down the 
sides it flew, 
and through the 
reed-like, 
hollow neck 
the wildest notes it 
blew. I placed it in the 
window, where the blast was 
blowing free, and fancied that its 
pale mouth sang the queerest strains 
to me. " They tell me — puny con- 
querors ! — the Plague has slain his ten, 
and War his hundred thousands of the 
very best of men ; but I " — 'twas thus 
the bottle spoke — " but I have con- 
quered more than all your famous con- 
querors, so feared and famed of yore. 
Then come, ye youths and maidens, 
come drink from out my cup, the bev- 
erage that dulls the brain and burns 
the spirit up ; that puts to shame 
the conquerors that slay their 
scores below ; for this has del- 
uged millions with the lava tide 
of woe. Though, m the path 
of battle, darkest waves of 
blood may roll ; yet while 
I killed the body, I have 
damned the very soul. 
The cholera, the sword, 
such ruin never wrought, 
as I, in mirth or malice, on 
the innocent have brought. 
And still I breathe upon them, 
and they shrink before my breath ; 
and year by year my thousands tread 

THE FEARFUL ROAD TO DEATH. 



88 



SORROW FOR THE DEAD. 



THE RAINY DA Y. 




LONGFELLOW. 



|HE day is cold, and dark, and dreary ; 
l - It rains, and the wind is never 
weary ; 
The vine still clings to the moldering 

wall, 
But at every gust the dead leaves 
fall, 
And the day is dark and dreary. 



My life is cold, and dark, and dreary ; 



It rains and the wind is never weary ; 
My thoughts still cling to the moldering past, 
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blasts 
And the days are dark and dreary. 

Be still, sad heart ! and cease repining ; 
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining ; 
Thy fate is the common fate of all, 
Into each life some rain must fall, 
Some days must be dark and dreary. 




SORROW FOR THE DEAD. 




WASHINGTON IRVING. 



HE sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to 
be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal, every other 
affliction to forget ; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep 
open ; this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude. Where 
is the mother who would willingly forget the infant that perished 
like a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang ? Where 
is the child that would willingly forget the most tender of parents, though 
to remember be but to lament ? Who, even in the hour of agony, would 



SORROW FOR THE DEAD. 89 



forget the friend over whom he mourns ? Who, even when the tomb is 
closing upon the remains of her he most loved — when he feels his heart, 
as it were, crushed in the closing of its portals — would accept of consola- 
tion that must be bought by forgetfulness ? 

No, the love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes 
of the soul. If it has its woes, it has its delights; and when the over- 
whelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection, 
when the sudden anguish and the convulsive agony over the present ruins 
of all that we most loved is softened away into pensive meditation on all 
that it was in the days of its loveliness, who would root out such a sorrow 
from the heart ? Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud over 
the bright hour of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of 
gloom, yet who would exchange it even for the song of pleasure, or the 
burst of revelry ? 

No, there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There is a 
remembrance of the dead to which we turn, even from the charms of the 
living. Oh, the grave ! the grave ! It buries every error, covers every 
defect, extinguishes every resentment ! From its peaceful bosom spring 
none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down, even 
upon the grave of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb that he 
should ever have warred with the poor handful of earth that lies rudder- 
ing before him ? 

But the grave of those we loved, what a place for meditation ! There 
it is that we call up in long review the whole history of virtue and gentle- 
ness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon us, almost unheeded in 
the daily intercourse of intimacy ; there it is that we dwell upon the 
tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scene ; the bed of 
death, with all its stifled griefs, its noiseless attendance, its mute, watchful 
assiduities. The last testimonies of expiring love ! the feeble, fluttering, 
thrilling, — oh, how thrilling I — pressure of the hand ! The faint, faltering 
accents, struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection ! The 
last fond look of the glazing eye, turned upon us even from the threshold 
of existence ! Ay, go to the grave of buried love and meditate. There 
settle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit unrequited, 
every past endearment unregarded, of that departed being who can never, 
never, never return to be soothed by thy contrition. 

If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a 
furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent ; if thou art a hus- 
band, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happi- 
ness in thy arms to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth ; if 



90 



EMBARKATION OF THE EXILES. 



thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged, in thought, or word, or deed, the 
spirit that generously confided in thee ; if thou art a lover, and hast ever 
given one unmerited pang to that true heart that now lies cold and still 
beneath thy feet ; then be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious 
word, every ungentle action will come thronging back upon thy memory, and 
knock dolefully at thy soul ; then be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing 
and repentant in the grave and utter the unheard groan, and pour the un- 
availing tear, more deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing. 
Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties of nature 
about the grave; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, with these 
tender, yet futile tributes of regret ; but take warning by the bitterness of 
this thy contrite affliction over the dead, and henceforth be more faithful 
and affectionate in the discharge of thy duties to the living. 




EMBARKATION OF THE EXILES. 



FROM LONGFELLOW S " EVANGELINE. 




|lIEN disorder prevailed, and the tu- 
mult and stir of emb'arking. 
Busily plied the freighted boats ; and 
in the confusion 



Wives were torn from their husbands, and 

mothers, too late, saw their children 
Left on the land, extending their arms, with 
wildest entreaties. 



THE GENEROUS SOLDIER SAVED. 



91 



So unto separate ships are Basil and Gabriel 

carried, 
While in despair on the shore, Evangeline 

stood with her father. 
Half the task was not done when the sun 

went down, and the twilight 
Deepened and darkened around ; and in haste 

the refluent ocean 
Pled away from the shore, and left the line 

of the sand-beach 
Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and 

the slippery sea-weed. 
Farther back in the midst of the household 

goods and the wagons, 
Like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a 

battle, 
All escape cut off by the sea, and the senti- 
nels near them, 
Lay encamped for the night, the houseless 

Acadian farmers. 



Back to its nethermost caves retreated the 
billowing- ocean, 

Dragging adown the beach the rattling peb- 
bles, and leaving 

Inland far up the shore the stranded boats of 
the sailors. 

Then, as the night descended, the herds re- 
turned from their pastures ; 

Scent was the moist still air with the odor of 
milk from their udders ; 

Lowing, they waited, and long at the well 
known bars of the farm-yard, — 

Waited and looked in vain for the voice and 
the hand of the milkmaid. 



Silence reigned in the streets ; from the 

Church no Angelus sounded, 
Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed 

no lights from the windows. 



THE GENERO US SOLDIER SA VED. 



THOUGHT, Mr. Allan, when I gave my Bennie to his country, 
that not a father in all this broad land made so precious a gift, — > 
no, not one. The dear boy only slept a minute, just one little 
minute, at his post ; I know that was all, for Bennie never dozed 
over a duty. How prompt and reliable he was ! I know he only 
fell asleep one little second; — he was so young, and not strong, that 
boy of mine ! Why, he was as tall as I, and only eighteen ! and now they 
shoot him because he was found asleep when doing sentinel duty. Twenty- 
four hours the telegram said, — only twenty-four hours. Where is Bennie 
now ?" 

" We will hope, with his heavenly Father," said Mr. Allan, sooth- 
ingly. 

" Yes, yes ; let us hope ; God is very merciful !" 

" ' I should be ashamed, father,' Bennie said, ' when I am a man, to 
think I never used this great right arm ' — and he held it out so proudly 
before me — ' for my country, when it needed it. Palsy it rather than keep 
it at the plow.' 

" ' Go, then, my boy,' I said, ' and God keep you !' God has kept him, 
I think, Mr. Allan !" and the farmer repeated these words slowly, as if, in 
spite of his reason, his heart doubted them. 



92 THE GENEROUS SOLDIER SAVED. 



" Like the apple of his eye, Mr. Owen ; doubt it not." 

Blossom sat near them listening, with blanched cheek. She had not 
shed a tear. Her anxiety had been so concealed that no one had noticed 
it. She had occupied herself mechanically in the household cares. Now 
she answered a gentle tap at the kitchen door, opening it to receive from 
a neighbor's hand a letter. " It is from him," was all she said. 

It was like a message from the dead ! Mr. Owen took the letter, but 
could not break the envelope, on account of his trembling fingers, and held 
it toward Mr. Allan, with the helplessness of a child. 

The minister opened it, and read as follows : — 

" Dear Father: — When this reaches you I shall be in eternity. At 
first it seemed awful to me ; but I have thought about it so much now, 
that it has no terror. They say they will not bind me, nor blind me ; but 
that I may meet my death like a man. I thought, father, it might have 
been on the battle-field, for my country, and that, when I fell, it would be 
fighting gloriously ; but to be shot down like a dog for nearly betraying 
it, — to die for neglect of duty ! 0, father, I wonder that the very thought 
does not kill me ! But I shall not disgrace you. I am going to write you 
all about it ; and when I am gone, you may tell my comrades. I can not 
now. 

" You know I promised Jemmie Carr's mother, I would look after 
her boy ; and, when he fell sick, I did all I could for him. He was not 
strong when he was ordered back into the ranks, and the day before that 
night, I carried all his luggage, besides my own on our march. Towards 
night we went in on double quick, and though the luggage began to feel 
very heavy, every body else was tired too ; and as for Jemmie, if I had 
not lent him an arm now and then, he would have dropped by the way. 
I was all tired out when we came into camp, and then it was Jemmie's 
turn to be sentry, and I would take his place ; but I was too tired, father. 
I could not have kept awake if a gun had been pointed at my head ; but 
I did not know it until — well, until it was too late." 

"God be thanked!" interrupted Mr. Owen, reverently. " I knew 
Bennie was not the boy to sleep carelessly at his post." 

" They tell me to-day that I have a short reprieve, given to me by 
circumstances, — ' time to write to you/ our good colonel says. Forgive 
him, father, he only does his duty ; he would gladly save me if he could ; 
and do not lay my death up against Jemmie. The poor boy is broken- 
hearted, and does nothing but beg and entreat them to let him die in my 
stead. 

" I cannot bear to think of mother and Blossom. Comfort them. 



THE GENEROUS SOLDIER SAVED. 93 

father ! Tell them I die as a brave boy should, and that, when the war is 
over, they will not be ashamed of me, as they must be now. God help 
me ; it is very hard to bear ! Good-by, father ! God seems near and dear 
to me ; not at all as if he wished me to perish for ever, but as if he felt 
sorry for his poor, sinful, broken-hearted child, and would take me to be 
with him and my Saviour in a better, — better life." 

A deep sigh burst from Mr. Owens heart. "Amen," he said 
solemnly, " Amen." 

" To-night, in the early twilight, I shall see the cows all coming home 
from pasture, and precious little Blossom stand on the back stoop, waiting 
for me ; but I shall never, never come ! God bless you all ! Forgive your 
poor Bennie." 

Late that night the door of the " back stoop " opened softly and a little 
figure glided out, and down the foot-path that led to the road by the mill. She 
seemed rather flying than walking, turning her head neither to the right 
nor the left, looking only now and then to Heaven, and folding her hands, 
as if in prayer. Two hours later, the same young girl stood at the Mill 
Depot, watching the coming of the night train ; and the conductor, as he 
reached down to lift her into the car, wondered at the tear-stained face 
that was upturned toward the bright lantern he held in his hand. A few 
questions and ready answers told him all ; and no father could have cared 
more tenderly for his only child than he for our little Blossom. She was 
on her way to Washington, to ask President Lincoln for her brother's life. 
She had stolen away, leaving only a note to tell where and why she had 
gone. She had brought Bennie's letter with her; no good, kind heart, 
like the President's, could refuse to be melted by it. The next morning 
they reached New York, and the conductor hurried her on to Washington. 
Every minute, now, might be the means of saving her brother's life. And 
so, in an incredibly short time, Blossom, reached the Capital, and hastened 
immediately to the White House. 

The President had but just seated himself to the task of overlooking 
and signing important papers, when, without one word of announcement, 
the door softly opened, and Blossom, with downcast eyes and folded hands, 
stood before him. 

" Well, my child," he said, in his pleasant, cheerful tones, " what do 
you want?" 

" Bennie's life, please sir!'' faltered Blossom. 

" Bennie ? Who is Bennie ?" 

"My brother, sir. They are going to shoot him for sleeping at his post." 

" Oh, yes ;" and Mr. Lincoln ran his eye over the papers before him. 



94 



THE GENEROUS SOLDIER SAVED. 



"I remember. It was a fatal sleep. You see, child, it was at a time of 
special danger. Thousands of lives might have been lost for his culpable 
negligence." 

" So my father said," replied Blossom, gravely, " but poor Bennie was 
bo tired, sir, and Jemmie so weak. He did the work of two, sir, and it 




LITTLE BLOSSOM AND PRESIDENT LINCOLN. 



was Jemmie's night, not his ; but Jemmie was too tired, and Bennie never 
thought about himself, that he was tired too." 

"What is this you say, child? Gome here ; I do not understand," 
and the kind man caught eagerly, as ever, at what seemed to be a justifi- 
cation of an offence. 

Blossom went to him ; he put his hand tenderly on her shoulder, and 



SONG OF SARATOGA. 



95 



turned up the pale, anxious face towards his. How tall he seemed ! and 
he was President of the United States, too. 

A dim thought of this kind passed for a moment through Blossom's 
mind ; bat she told her simple and straightforward story, and handed Mr. 
Lincoln Bennie's letter to read. 

He read it carefully; then, taking up his pen, wrote a few hasty 
lines, and rang his bell. 

Blossom heard this order given : " Send this dispatch at once." 

The President then turned to the girl and said, " Go home, my child, 
and tell that father of yours, who could approve his country's sentence, 
even when it took the life of a child like that, that Abraham Lincoln 
thinks the life far too precious to be lost. Go back, or — wait until to- 
morrow ; Bennie will need a change after he has so bravely faced death ; 
he shall go with you." 

"God bless you, sir," said Blossom; and who shall doubt that God 
heard and registered the request ? 

Two days after this interview, the young soldier came to the White 
House with his little sister. Pie was called into the President's private 
room, and a strap fastened upon the shoulder. Mr. Lincoln then said : 
" The soldier that could carry a sick comrade's baggage, and die for the 
act so uncomplainingly, deserves well of his country." Then Bennie and 
Blossom took their way to their Green Mountain home. A crowd gathered 
at the Mill Depot to welcome them back ; and as farmer Owen's hand 
grasped that of his boy, tears flowed down his cheeks and he was heard 
to say fervently : " The Lord be praised /" 



SONG OF SARATOGA. 



JOHN G. SAXE. 



Springs?" 
The question is easy to ask : 
4J^ But to answer it fully, my dear, 
f Were rather a serious task. 
¥ And yet, in a bantering way, 
j As the magpie or mocking-bird sings, 
I'll venture a bit of a song, 
To tell what they do at the Springs. 



Imprimis, my darling, they drink 

The waters so sparkling and clear ; 
Though the flavor is none of the best, 

And the odor exceedingly queer : 
But the fluid is mingled you know, 

With wholesome medicinal things ; 
So they drink, and they drink, and they 
drink, — 

And that's what they do at the Springs ! 



9o 



THE RUINED COTTAGE. 



The^ with appetites keen as a knife, 

They hasten to breakfast, or dine ; 
The latter precisely at three, 

The former from seven till nine. 
Ye gods ! what a rustle and rush, 

When the eloquent dinner-bell rings ! 
Then they eat, and they eat, and they eat — 

And that's what they do at the Springs ! 

Now they stroll in the beautiful walks, 

Or loll in the shade of the trees ; 
Where many a whisper is heard 

That never is heard by the breeze ; 
And hands are commingled with hands, 

Regardless of conjugal rings : 
And they flirt, and they flirt, and they flirt — 

And that's what they do a,t the Springs ! 



The drawing-rooms now are ablaze, 

And music is shrieking away ; 
Terpsichore governs the hour, 

And fashion was never so gay ! 
An arm round a tapering waist — 

How closely and how fondly it clinpp ' 
So they waltz, and they waltz, and they waltz, 

And that's what they do at the Springs ! 

In short, — as it goes in the world, — 

They eat, and they drink, and they sleep ; 
They talk, and they walk, and they woo ; 

They sigh, and they laugh, and they weep ; 
They read, and they ride, and they dance ; 

(With other remarkable things :) 
They pray, and they play, and they pay, — • 

And that's what they do at the Springs ( 



THE R UINEJD CO TTA GE. 




MRS. LETITIA E. MACLEAN. 



K3NE will dwell in that cottage, for they say oppression reft it from 
an honest man, and that a curse clings to it ; hence the vine trails 
* its green weight of leaves upon the ground ; hence weeds are in 
that garden ; hence the hedge, once sweet with honeysuckle, is 
half dead ; and hence the gray moss on the apple-tree. One once 
dwelt there who had been in his youth a soldier, and when many 
years had passed, he sought his native village, and sat down to end his 
days in peace. He had one child — a little, laughing thing, whose large, 
dark eyes, he said, were like the mother's he had left buried in strangers' 
land. And time went on in comfort and content — and that fair girl had 
grown far taller than the red rose tree her father planted on her first Eng- 
lish birthday ; and he had trained it up against an ash till it became his 
pride ; it was so rich in blossom and in beauty, it was called the tree of 
Isabel. 'Twas an appeal to all the better feelings of the heart, to mark their 
quiet happiness, their home — in truth a home of love, — and more than all, 
to see them on the Sabbath, when they came among the first to 
church, and Isabel, with her bright color and her clear, glad eyes, bowed 
down so meekly in the house of prayer, and in the hymn her sweet voice 
audible ; her father looked so fond of her, and then from her looked up so 
thankfully to heaven ! And their small cottage was so very neat ; their 
garden filled with fruits and herbs and flowers ; and in the winter there 
was no fireside so cheerful as their own. 



THE SOUL OF ELOQUENCE. 97 

But other days and other fortunes came — an evil power ! They bore 
against it cheerfully, and hoped for better times, but ruin came at last ; and 
the old soldier left his own dear home, and left it for a prison ! 'Twas in June 
— one of June's brightest days ; the bee, the bird, the butterfly, were on 
their lightest wing ; the fruits had their first 
tinge of summer light ; the sunny sky, the very 
leaves seemed glad ; and the old man looked 
back upon his cot and wept aloud. They hur- 
ried him away from the dear child that would 
not leave his side. They led him from the sight 
of the blue heaven and the green trees into a 
low, dark cell, the windows shutting out the 
blessed sun with iron grating ; and for the first 
time he threw him on his bed, and could not 
hear his Isabel's good night ! But the next 
morn she was the earliest at the prison gate, 
the last on whom it closed ; and her sweet voice 
and sweeter smile made him forget to pine, notwithstanding his deep sorrow. 
She brought him every morning fresh wild flowers ; but every morning 
he could mark her cheek grow paler and more pale, and her low tones 
get fainter and more faint, and a cold dew was on the hand he held. One 
day he saw the sunshine through the grating of his cell — yet Isabel came 
not; at every sound his heart-beat took away his breath — yet still she 
came not near him ! But one sad day he marked the dull street through 
the iron bars that shut him from the world ; at length he saw a coffin car- 
ried carelessly along, and he grew desperate — he forced the bars, and he 
stood on the street free and alone ! He had no aim, no wish for liberty ; 
he only felt one want — to see the corpse that had no mourners. When 
they set it down, ere it was lowered into the new-dug grave, a rush of pas- 
sion came upon his soul, and he tore off the lid — he saw the face of Isabel, 
and knew he had no child ! He lay down by the coffin quietly — his heart 
was broken ! 




THE SOUL OF ELOQUENCE. 




JOHANN W. GOETHE. 



OW shall we learn to sway the minds 

of men 
By eloquence ? — to rule them, to 

persuade ? — 
7 



Do you seek genuine and worthy fame? 
Reason and honest feeling want no arts 
Of utterance, ask no toil of elocution ! 
And, when you speak in earnest do you Deed 



98 



SONG OF SPUING. 



A search for words ? Oh ! these fine holiday 

phrases, 
In which you robe your worn-out common- 
places, 
These scraps of paper which you crimp and 

curl 
And twist into a thousand idle shapes, 
These filigree ornaments, are good for 

nothing, — 
Cost time and pains, please few, impose on no 

one ; 
Are unrefreshing as the wind that whistles, 
In autumn, 'mong the dry and wrinkled 

leaves. 
If feeling does not prompt, in vain you 

strive. 
If from the soul the language does not come, 
By its own impulse, to impel the hearts 



Of hearers with communicated power, 

In vain you strive, in vain you study 

earnestly ! 
Toil on forever, piece together fragments, 
Cook up your broken scraps of sentences, 
And blow, with puffing breath, a struggling 

light, 
Glimmering confusedly now, now cold in 

ashes ; 
Startle the school-boys with your meta- 
phors, — 
And, if such food may suit your appetite, 
Win the vain wonder of applauding child- 
ren, — 
But never hope to stir the hearts of men, 
And mould the souls of many into one, 
By words which come not native from the 
heart ! 



^■L-?. 




SONG OF SPRING. 



pEpAUD the first spring daisies 
HJI Chant aloud their praises ; 
Send the children up 
To the high hill's top ; 



EDWARD YOUL. 



Tax not the strength of their young hands 
To increase your lands. 
Gather the primroses, 
Make handfuls into posies; 



THE GHOSTS OF LONG AGO. 



99 



Take them to the little girls who are at work 

in mills : 
Pluck the violets blue, — 
Ah, pluck not a few ! 
Knowest thou what good thoughts from 

Heaven the violet instils ? 

Give the children holidays, 

(And let these be jolly days,) 

Grant freedom to the children in this joyous 

spring ; 
Better men, hereafter, 
Shall we have, for laughter 
Freely shouted to the woods, till all the 

echoes ring. 
Send the children up 
To the high. hill's top, 
Or deep into the wood's recesses, 

To woo spring's caresses. 
Ah, come and woo the spring ; 
List to the birds that sing ; 
Pluck the primroses ; pluck the violets ; 



Pluck the daisies, 
Sing their praises ; 
Friendship with the flowers some noble thought 

begets. 
Come forth and gather these sweet elves, 
(More witching are they than the fays of old,) 
Come forth and gather them yourselves ; 
Learn of these gentle flowers whose worth is 

more than gold. 

Come forth on Sundays ; 

Come forth on Mondays ; 

Come forth on any day ; 

Children, come forth to play : — 

Worship the God of nature in your childhood; 

Worship him at your tasks with best endeavor; 

Worship him in your sports ; worship him ever ; 

Worship him in the wildwood ; 

Worship him amidst the flowers ; 

In the greenwood bowers ; 

Pluck the buttercups, and raise 

Your voices in his praise ! 



THE GHOSTS OF LONG AGO. 




MES. J. H. EIDDELL. 



|HE ghosts of the long ago — laid and buried, as you fancied, years and 
years since, friends, — though your present sight may fail to 
discern them, — they are traveling with you still, a ghastly com- 
pany. While you drive in your carriage along life's smoothest turn- 
pike-roads, or pace, footsore and weary, over the flinty by-paths of 
existence, past events are skipping on beside you, mocking, jeering, at your 
profound self-delusion. Shall fleet steeds leave them behind? Shall 
liveried servants keep them at bay ? Shall an unsuccessful existence, 
drawing to a still more unsuccessful close, be able to purchase their for- 
bearance ? Nay, invisible now, they shall be visible some day ; voiceless, 
they shall yet find tongues ; despised, they shall rear their head and hiss 
at you ; forgotten, they shall reappear with more strength than at their 
first birth; and when the evil day comes, and your power, and your 
energy, and your youth and your hope, have gone, they shall pour the 
overflowing drop into your cup, they shall mingle fennel with your wine, 
they shall pile the last straw on your back, they shall render wealth 
valueless and life a burden ; they shall make poverty more bitter, and add 
another pain, to that which already racks you; they shall break the 



100 



THE FARMER AND THE COUNSELLOR. 



breaking heart, and make you turn your changed face to the wall, and 
gather up your feet into your bed, and pray to be delivered from your 
tormentors by your God, who alone knows all. 

Wherefore, young man, if you would ensure a peaceful old age, be 
careful of the acts of each day of your youth ; for with youth the deeds 
thereof are not to be left behind. They are detectives, keener and more 
unerring than ever the hand of sensational novelist depicted; they will dog 
you from the hour you sinned till the hour your trial comes off. You are 
prosperous, you are great, you are " beyond the world," as I have heard peo- 
ple say, meaning the power or the caprice thereof; but you are not beyond, 
the power of events. Whatever you may think now, they are only biding 
their time ; and when you are weak and at their mercy, when the world 
you fancied you were beyond has leisure to hear their story and scoff at 
you, they will come forward and tell all the bitter tale. And if you take 
it one way, you will bluster and bully, and talk loud, and silence society 
before your face, if you fail to still its tattle behind your back ; while if 
you take it another way, you will bear the scourging silently, and cover up 
the marks of the lash as best you may, and go home and close your door, 
and sit there alone with your misery, decently and in order, till you die.. 



THE FARMER AND THE COUNSELLOR. 




Wj& COUNSEL in the " Common Pleas," 
Who was esteemed a mighty wit, 
Upon the strength of a chance hit, 
Amid a thousand flippancies, 
And his occasional bad jokes, 
In bullying, bantering, browbeating, 
Ridiculing and maltreating 
Women, or other timid folks ; 
In a late cause, resolved to hoax 
A clownish Yorkshire farmer — one 
Who by his uncouth look and gait, 
Appeared expressly meant by fate 
For being quizzed and played upon. 

So having tipped the wink to those 

In the back rows, 
Who kept their laughter bottled down, 

Until our wag should draw the cork — 
He smiled jocosely on the clown, 

And went to work. 

" Well, Farmer Numskull, how go calves at 
York ? " 



" Why — not, sir, as they do wi' you; 

But on four legs instead of two.'" 
" Officer," cried the legal elf, 
Piqued at the laugh against himself, 

" Do, pray, keep silence down below - 
there ! 
Now look at me, clown and attend, 
Have I not seen you somewhere, friend?" 

" Yees, very like, I often go there." 

" Our rustic's waggish — quite lanconic," 
(The counsel cried, with grin sardonic,) 

" I wish I'd known this prodigy, 
This genius of the clods, when I 

On circuit was at York residing. 
Now, farmer, do for once speak true, 
Mind, you're on oath, so tell me, you 
Who doubtless think yourself so clever, 
Are there as many fools as ever 

In the West Riding ? " 

" Why no, sir, no ! we've got our share, 
But not so many as when you were there.'*' 



JIMMY BUTLER AND THE OWL. 



101 



JIMMY BUTLER AND THE OWL. 



^T was in the summer of '46 that I landed at Hamilton, fresh as a new 
pratie just dug from the "ould sod," and wid a light heart and a 
heavy bundle I sot off for the township of Buford, tiding a taste of a 
song, as merry a young fellow as iver took the road. Well, I 
I trudged on and on, past many a plisint place, pleasin' myself wid the 
I thought that some day I might have a place of my own, wid a world 
of chickens and ducks and pigs and childer about the door ; and along in 
the afternoon of the sicond day I got to Buford village. A cousin of me 
mother's, one Dennis O'Dowd, lived about sivin miles from there, and I 
wanted to make his place that night, so I inquired the way at the tavern, 
and was lucky to find a man who was goin' part of the way an' would show 
me the way to find Dennis. Sure he was very kind indade, an' when I got 
out of his wagon he pointed me through the wood and tould me to go 
straight south a mile an' a half, and the first house would be Dennis's. 

" An' you've no time to lose now," 
said he, " for the sun is low, and mind 
you don't get lost in the woods." 

" Is it lost now," said I, " that I'd 
be gittin, an' me uncle as great a navi- 
gator as iver steered a ship across the 
thrackless say ! Not a bit of it, though 
I'm obleeged to ye for your kind advice, 
and thank yez for the ride." 

An' wid that he drove off an' left me 
alone. I shouldered me bundle bravely, 
an' whistlin' a bit of tune for company 
like, I pushed into the bush. Well, I 
went a long way over bogs, and turnin' 
round among the bush an' trees till I 
began to think I must be well nigh to Dennis's. But, bad cess to it ! all 
of a sudden I came out of the woods at the very identical spot where I 
started in, which I knew by an ould crotched tree that seemed to be standin' 
on its head and kickin' up its heels to make divarsion of me. By this 
time it was growin' dark, and as there was no time to lose, I started in a 
second time, determined to keep straight south this time and no mistake. 
I got on bravely for a while, but och hone ! och hone ! it got so dark I 
couldn't see the trees, and I bumped me nose and barked me shins, while 




" you've no time to lose now." 



102 JIMMY BUTLER AND THE OWL. 

the miskaties bit me hands and face to a blister ; an' after tumblin' and 
stumblin' around till I was fairly bamfoozled, I sat down on a log, all of a 
trimble, to think. that I was lost intirely, an' that maybe a lion or some 
other wild craythur would devour me before morning. 

Just then I heard somebody a long way off say, " Whip poor Will ! " 
"Bedad," sez I, " I'm glad that it isn't Jamie that's got to take it, though 
it seems it's more in sorrow than in anger they are doin' it, or why should 
they say, ' poor Will ? ' an' sure they can't be Injin, hay thin, or nayg-ur, 
for it's plain English they're afther spakin\ Maybe they might help me 
out o' this," so I shouted at the top of my voice, " A lost man ! " Thin I 
listened. Prisently an answer came. 

"Who? Whoo? Whooo?" 

" Jamie Butler, the waiver ! " sez I, as loud as I could roar, an' snatchin' 
up me bundle an' stick, I started in the direction of the voice. Whin I 
thought I had got near the place I stopped and shouted again, " A lost 
man ! " . 

" Who ! Whoo ! Whooo ! " said a voice right over my head. 

" Sure," thinks I, " it's a mighty quare place for a man to be at this 
time of night ; maybe it's some settler scrapin' sugar off a sugar-bush for 
the children's breakfast in the mornin'. But where's Will and the rest of 
them ? " All this wint through me head like a flash, an' thin I answered 
his inquiry. 

" Jamie Butler, the waiver," sez I ; " and if it wouldn't inconvanience 
yer honor, would yez be kind enough to step down and show me the way 
to the house of Dennis O'Dowd ? " 

" Who ! Whoo ! Whooo ! " sez he. 

" Dennis O'Dowd," sez I, civil enough, " and a dacent man he is, and 
first cousin to me own mother." 

" Who ! Whoo ! Whooo ! " sez he again. 

"Me mother! " sez I, "and as fine a woman as iver peeled a biled pratie 
wid her thumb nail, and her father's name was Paddy McFiggin. 

"Who! Whoo! Whooo!" 

" Paddy McFiggin ! bad luck to yer deaf ould head, Paddy McFiggin, 
I say — do ye hear that? An' he was the tallest man in all county Tipper- 
ary,,excipt Jim Doyle, the blacksmith." 

" Who ! Whoo ! Whooo ! " 

" Jim Doyle, the blacksmith," sez I, " ye good for nothin' blaggurd 
naygur, and if yez don't come down and show me the way this min't, I'll 
climb up there and break every bone in your skin, ye spalpeen, so sure as 
me name is Jimmy Butler ! " 



JIMMY BUTLER AND THE OWL. 



103 



" Who ! Whoo ! Whooo ! " sez he, as 
impident as ever. 

I said niver a word, but lavin' down 
me bundle, and takin' me stick in me 
teeth, I began to climb the tree. Whin 
I got among the branches I looked 
quietly around till I saw a pair of big 
eyes just forninst me. 

" Whist," sez I, " and I'll let him 
have a taste of an Irish stick," and wid 
that I let drive and lost me balance an' 
came tumblin' to the ground, nearly 
breakin' me neck wid the fall. Whin 
I came to me sinsis I had a very sore 
head wid a lump on it like a goose egg, 

and half of me Sunday coat-tail torn off intirely. I spoke to the chap in 
the tree, but could git niver an answer, at all, at all. 

Sure, thinks I, he must have gone home to rowl up his head, for by the 
powers I didn't throw me stick for nothin'. 

Well, by this time the moon was up and I could see a little, and I 
detarmined to make one more effort to reach Dennis's. 

I wint on cautiously for a while, an' thin I heard a bell. " 
I, t( I'm comin' to a settlement now, for I hear the church bell. 




WHIST, SAYS I. 



Sure," sez 



I kept 

on toward the sound till I came to an ould cow wid a bell on. She started 
to run, but I was too quick for her, and got her by the tail and hung on, 
thinkin' that maybe she would take me out of the woods. On we wint, like 
an ould country steeple-chase, till, sure enough, we came out to a clearin' 
and a house in sight wid a light in it. So, leaving the ould cow puffin' 
and blowin' in a shed, I went to the house, and as luck would have it, 
whose should it be but Dennis's. 

He gave me a raal Irish welcome, and introduced me to his two 
daughters — as purty a pair of girls as iver ye clapped an eye on. But 
whin I tould him my adventure in the woods, and about the fellow who 
made fun of me, they all laughed and roared, and Dennis said it was an 
owl. 

" An ould what ? " sez I. 

" Why, an owl, a bird," sez he. 

" Do ye tell me now ? " sez I. " Sure it's a quare country and a quare 
bird." 

And thin they all laughed again, till at last I laughed myself, that 



104 



THE OLD WAYS AND THE NEW. 



hearty like, and dropped right into a chair between the two purty girls, 
and the ould chap winked at me and roared again. 

Dennis is me father-in-law now, and he often yet delights to tell our 
children about their daddy's adventure wid the owl. 



THE OLD WA YS AND THE NEW. 



JOHN H. YATES. 



>'VE just come in from the meadow, wife, 
where the grass is tall and green ; 
I hobbled out upon my cane to see 
John's new machine ; 
4 It made my old eyes snap again to see 

that mower mow. 
y And I heaved a sigh for the scythe I 
I swung some twenty years ago. 

Many and many's the day I've mowed 'neath 

the rays of a scorching sun, 
Till I thought my poor old back would break 

ere my task for the day was done ; 
I often think of the days of toil in the fields 

all over the farm, 
Till I feel the sweat on my wrinkled brow, 

and the old pam come in my arm. 

It was hard work, it was slow work, a-swing- 

ing the old scythe then ; 
Unlike the mower that went through the 

grass like death through the ranks of men. 
I stood and looked till my old eyes ached, 

amazed at its speed and power ; 
The work that it took me a day to do, it done 

in one short hour. 

John said that I hadn't seen the half: when 

he puts it into his wheat, 
I shall see it reap and rake it, and put it in 

bundles neat ; 
Then soon a Yankee will come along, and set 

to work and larn 
To reap it, and thresh it, and bag it up, and 

send it into the barn. 



John kinder laughed when he said it * but I 
said to the hired men, 

" I have seen so much on my pilgrimage 
through my threescore years and ten, 

That I wouldn't be surprised to see a railroad 
in the air, 

Or a Yankee in a flyin' ship a-goin' most any- 
where." 

There's a difference in the work I done, and 

the work my boys now do ; 
Steady and slow in the good old way, worry 

and fret in the new ; 
But somehow I think there was happiness 

crowded into those toiling days, 
That the fast young men of the present will 

not see till they change their ways. 

To think that I ever should live to see work 

done in this wonderful way ! 
Old tools are of little service now, and farmin* 

is almost play ; 
The women have got their sewin'-machines, 

their wringers, and every sich thing, 
And now play croquet in the door-yard, or 

sit in the parlor and sing. 

'Twasn't you that had it so easy, wife, in the 

days so long gone by ; 
You riz up early, and sat up late, a-toilin' for 

you and I. 
There were cows to milk ; there was butter to 

make ; and many a day did you stand 
A-washin' my toil-stained garments, and 

wringin' em out by hand. 



NEW ENGLAND. 



105 



Ah ! wife, our children will never see the hard 

work we have seen, 
For the heavy task and the long task is now 

done with a machine ; 
No longer the noise of the scythe I hear, the 

mower — there ! hear it afar ? 
A-rattlin' along through the tall, stout grass 

with the noise of a railroad car. 

Well ! the old tools now are shoved away ; 

they stand a-gatherm' rust, 
Like many an old man I have seen put aside 

with only a crust ; 



When the eye grows dim, when the step is weak,. 

when the strength goes out of his arm, 
The best thing a poor old man can do is to 

hold the deed of the farm. 

There is one old way that they can't improve, 
although it has been tried 

By men who have studied and studied, and. 
worried till they died ; 

It has shone undimmed for ages, like gold re- 
fined from its dross ; 

It's the way to the kingdom of heaven, by 
the simple way of the cross. 



NEW ENGLAND. 



S. S. PEENTISS. 




fggSLOBIOUS New England ! thou art still true to thy ancient fame, 
and worthy of thy ancestral honors. We, thy children, have 
assembled in this far distant land to celebrate thy birthday. A 
thousand fond associations throng upon us, roused by the spirit of the 
hour. On thy pleasant valleys rest, like sweet dews of morning, the 
gentle recollections of our early life ; around thy hills and mountains, 
cling, like gathering mists, the mighty memories of the Kevolution ; and,, 
far away in the horizon of thy past, gleam, like thy own bright northern 
lights, the awful virtues of our pilgrim sires ! But while we devote this 
day to the remembrance of our native land, we forget not that in which 
our happy lot is cast. We exult in the reflection, that though we count by 
thousands the miles which separate us from our birth-place, still our 
country is the same. We are no exiles meeting upon the banks of a foreign, 
river, to swell its waters with our home- sick tears. Here floats the same, 
banner which rustled above our boyish heads, except that its mighty folds. • 
are wider, and its glittering stars increased in number. 

The sons of New England are found in every state of the broad repub- 
lic ! In the East, the South, and the unbounded West, their blood mingles, 
freely with every kindred current. We have but changed our chamber in 
the paternal mansion ; in all its rooms we are at home, and all who inhabit 
it are our brothers. To us the Union has but one domestic hearth ; its 
household gods are all the same. Upon us, then, peculiarly devolves the 



106 



TIM TWINKLETON'S TWINS. 



duty of feeding the fires upon that kindly hearth ; of guarding with pious 
care those sacred household gods. 

We cannot do with less than the whole Union ; to us it admits of no 
division. In the veins of our children flows Northern and Southern blood ; 
how shall it be separated ? — Who shall put asunder the best affections of the 
heart, the noblest instincts of our nature ? We love the land of our adop- 
tion : so do we that of our birth. Let us ever be true to both ; and always 
exert ourselves in maintaining the unity of our country, the integrity of the 
republic. 

Accursed, then, be the hand put forth to loosen the golden cord of 
union ! thrice accursed the traitorous lips which shall propose its severance ! 

But no ! the Union cannot be dissolved. Its fortunes are too brilliant 
to be marred; its destinies too powerful to be resisted. Here will be their 
greatest triumph, their most mighty development. 

And when, a century hence, this Crescent City shall have filled her 
golden horns : — when within her broad-armed port shall be gathered the 
products of the industry of a hundred millions of freemen ; — when galleries 
of art and halls of learning shall have made classic this mart of trade ; then 
may the sons of the Pilgrims, still wandering from the bleak hills of the 
north, stand up on the banks of the Great River, and exclaim, with mingled 
pride and wonder. — " Lo ! this is our country ; — when did the world ever 
behold so rich and magnificent a city — so great 'and glorious a republic ! " 



TIM TWINKLETON'S TWINS. 



CHARLES A. BELL. 




IM TW1NKLETON was, I would 
have you to know, 
A cheery-faced tailor, of Pineapple 
Row; 
His sympathies warm as the irons he 

used, 

And his temper quite even, because not 
abused. 
As a fitting reward for his kindness of heart, 
He was blessed with a partner, both comely 

and smart, 
And ten " olive branches," — four girls and 

six boys — 
Completed the household, divided its joys. 



But another " surprise" was in store for Tim 

T., 
Who, one bright Christmas morning was 

sipping coffee, 
When a neighbor (who acted as nurse,) said 

with glee, 
" You've just been presented with twins ! Do 

you see?" 
" Good gracious !" said Tim, overwhelmed 

with surprise, 
For he scarce could be made to believe his 

own eyes ; 
His astonishment o'er, he acknowledged, of 

course, 



TIM TWINKLETON'S TWINS. 



107 



That the trouble, indeed, might have been a 
deal worse. 

The twins were two boys, and poor Tim was 

inclined 
To believe them . the handsomest pair you 

could find, 
But fathers' and mothers' opinions, they say, 
Always favor their own children just the 

same way. 
" Would you like to step up, sir, to see Mrs. 

T. ?" 
The good lady said : " she's as pleased as can 

be." 
Of course the proud father dropp'd both fork 

and knife, 
And bounded up stairs to embrace his good 

wife. 

-Now, Mrs. Tim Twinkleton — I should have 

said — 
.An industrious, frugal life always had led, 
A.nd kept the large family from poverty's 

woes, 
By washing, and starching, and ironing 

clothes. 
But, before the young twins had arrived in 

the town, 
She'd intended to send to a family named 

Brown, 
Who resided some distance outside of the city, 
A basket of clothes ; so she thought it a pity 

That the basket should meet any further de- 
lay, 

A.nd told Tim to the depot to take it that 
day. 

He promised he would, and began to make 
haste, 

For he found that there was not a great while 
to waste, 

So, kissing his wife, he bade her good-bye, 

And out of the room in an instant did hie ; 

And met the good nurse, on the. stairs, com- 
ing up 

With the " orthodox gruel," for his wifej in 
a cup. 

'" Where's the twins ?" said the tailor, " Oh, 
they are all right," 



The good nurse replied: "they are looking 

so bright ! 
I've hushed them to sleep, — they look so 

like their Pop, — 
And I've left them down stairs, where they 

sleep like a top." 
In a hurry Tim shouldered the basket, and got 
To the rail-station, after a long and sharp 

trot, 
And he'd just enough time to say " Brown — 

Nornstown — 
A basket of clothes — " and then the train 

was gone. 

The light-hearted tailor made haste to return, 
For his heart with affection for his family 

did burn ; 
And it's always the case, with a saint or a 

sinner, 
Whate'er may occur, he's on hand for his 

dinner. 
" How are the twins ?" was his first inquiry; 
" I've hurried home quickly, my darlings to 

see," 
In ecstacy, quite of his reason bereft. 
" Oh, the dear little angels hain't cried since 

you left ! 

" Have you," my sweets ?" — and the nurse 

turned to where 
Just a short time before, were her objects of 

care. 
" Why — which of you children," said she, 

with surprise, 
" Removed that ar basket? — now don't tell 

no lies !" 
" Basket! what basket?" cried Tim with af- 
fright ; 
"Why, the basket of clothes — I thought it 

all right 
To put near the fire, and, fearing no harm, 
Placed the twins in so cozy, to keep them 

quite warm." 

Poor Tim roared aloud: "Why, what have 

I done? 
You surely must mean what you say but in 

fun! 
That basket 1 my twins I shall ne'er see 

again ! 



108 



TIM TWINKLETON'S TWINS. 



Why, I sent them both off by the 12 o'clock 

train!" 
The nurse, at these words, sank into a chair 
And exclaimed, " Oh, my precious dears, you 

hain't there ! 
Go, Twinkleton, go, telegraph like wildfire!" 
" Why," said Tim, " they cant send the twins 

home on the wire f" 




" Oh dear !" cried poor Tim, getting ready to 

go; 

" Could ever a body have met with such woe ? 
Sure this is the greatest of greatest mistakes ; 
Why, the twins will be all squashed down into 
pancakes!" 

Tim Twinkleton hurried, as if all creation 

Were after him, quick, on his way to the sta- 
tion. 

" That's the man, — you wretch !" and, tight 
as a rasp, 

Poor Tim found himself in a constable's 
grasp. 

" Ah ! ha ! I have got yer, now don't say a 

word, 
Yer know very well about what has occurred ; 
Come 'long to the station-house, hurry up 

now, 
Or 'tween you and me there'll be a big row." 



" What's the charge?" asked the tailor of the 

magistrate, 
" I'd like to find out, for it's getting quite 

late ;" 
"So you shall," he replied, "but don't look 

so meek, — 
You deserted your infants, — now hadn't you. 

cheek?" 




Now it happened that, during the trial 'of 

the case, 
An acquaintance of Tim's had stepped into- 

the place, 
And he quickly perceived, when he heard irr 

detail 
The facts of the case, and said he'd go bail 
To any amount, for good Tim Twinkleton, 
For he knew he was innocent, " sure as a gun.' 
And the railway-clerk's evidence, given in. 

detail, 
Was not quite sufficient to send him to jail. 

It was to effect, that the squalling began 
Just after the basket in the baggage-van 
Had been placed by Tim T., who solemnly 

swore 
That he was quite ignorant of their presence- 

before. 
So the basket was brought to the magistrate's.; 

sight, 



THE TWO ROADS. 



109 



And the twins on the top of the clothes 


But the nurse said with joy, " Since you left 


looked so bright, 


she has slept, 


That the magistrate's heart of a sudden en- 


And from her the mistakes of to-day I have 


larged, 


kept." 


And he ordered that Tim Twinkleton be dis- 


Poor Tim, and the nurse, and all the small 


charged. 


fry. 




Before taking dinner, indulged in a cry. 


Tim grasped up the basket and ran for dear 


The twins are now grown, and they time and 


life, 


again 


And when he reached home he first asked 


Relate their excursion on the railway 


for his wife ; 


train. 



TEE TWO ROADS. 



RICHTER. 



^T was New Year's night. An aged man was standing at a window. 
He mournfully raised his eyes towards the deep blue sky, where the 
stars were floating like white lilies on the surface of a clear, calm 
lake. Then he cast them on the earth, where few more helpless 
beings than himself were moving towards their inevitable goal — the 
tomb. Already he had passed sixty of the stages which lead to it, 
and he had brought from his journey nothing but errors and remorse. 
His health was destroyed, his mind unfurnished, his heart sorrowful, and 
his old age devoid of comfort. 

The days of his youth rose up in a vision before him, and he recalled 
the solemn moment when his father had placed him at the entrance of two 
roads, one leading into a peaceful, sunny land, covered with a fertile har- 
vest, and resounding with soft, sweet songs ; while the other conducted 
the wanderer into a deep, dark cave, whence there was no issue, where 
poison flowed instead of water, and where serpents hissed and crawled. 

He looked towards the sky, and cried out in his anguish : " youth, 
return ! my father, place me once more at the crossway of life, that I 
may choose the better road ! " But the days of his youth had passed away, 
and his parents were with the departed. He saw wandering lights float 
over dark marshes, and then disappear. "Such-," he said, "were the days 
of my wasted life ! " He saw a star shoot from heaven, and vanish in 
darkness athwart the church-yard. " Behold an emblem of myself! " he 
exclaimed; and the sharp arrows of unavailing remorse struck him to 
the heart. 

Then he remembered his early companions, who had entered life with 



110 



THE QUAKER WIDOW. 



him, but who having trod the paths of virtue and industry, were now 
happy and honored on this New Year's night. The clock in the high 
church-tower struck, and the sound, falling on his ear, recalled the many 
tokens of the love of his parents for him, their erring son ; the lessons 
they had taught him; the prayers they had offered up in his behalf. 
Overwhelmed with shame and grief, he dared no longer look towards that 
heaven where they dwelt His darkened eyes dropped tears, and, with 
one despairing effort, he cried aloud, " Come back, my early days ! Come 
back ! " 

And his youth did return ; for all this had been but a dream, visiting 
his slumbers on New Year's night. He was still young, his errors only 
were no dream. He thanked God fervently that time was still his own ; 
that he had not yet entered the deep, dark cavern, but that he was free to 
tread the road leading to the peaceful land where sunny harvests wave. 

Ye who still linger on the threshold of life, doubting which path to 
choose, remember that when years shall be passed, and your feet shall 
stumble on the dark mountain, you will cry bitterly, but cry in vain, "0 
youth return ! Oh, give me back my early days ! " 



THE QUAKER WIDOW. 



BAYARD TAYLOR. 




,J|HEE finds me in the garden, Hannah ; 
|H come in ! 'Tis kind of thee 

To wait until the Friends were gone 

who came to comfort me, 
The still and qniet company a peace 

may give indeed, 
But blessed is the single heart that 
comes to us at need. 

Come, sit thee down! Here is the bench 

where Benjamin would sit 
On First-day afternoons in spring, and watch 

the swallows flit ; 
He loved to smell the sprouting box, and hear 

the pleasant bees 
Go humming round the lilacs and through 

the apple trees. 

I think he loved the spring : not that he cared 
for flowers : most men 



Think such things foolishness ; but we were 
first acquainted then, 

One spring ; the next he spoke his mind ; the 
third I was his wife, 

And in the spring (it happened so) our chil- 
dren entered life. 

He was but seventy-five : I did not think to 

lay him yet 
In Kennett graveyard, where at Monthly 

Meeting first we met. 
The Father's mercy shows in this : 'tis better 

I should be 
Picked out to bear the heavy cross — alone in 

age — than he. 

We've lived together fifty years ; it seems but 

one long day, 
One quiet Sabbath of the heart, till he was 

called away ; 



THE QUAKER WIDOW. 



Ill 



And as we bring from Meeting-time a sweet 


I used to blush when he came near, but then 


contentment home, 


I showed no sign ; 


So, Hannah, I have store of peace for all the 


With all the meeting looking on, I held his 


days to come. 


hand in mine. 




It seemed my bashfulness was gone, now I 


I mind (for I can tell thee now) how hard it 


was his for life : 


was to know 


Thee knows the feeling, Hannah ; thee, too, 


If I had heard the spirit right, that told me I 


hast been a wife. 


should go ; 




For father had a deep concern upon his mind 


As home we rode, I saw no fields look half so 


that day. 


green as ours ; 


But mother spoke for Benjamin ; she knew 


The woods were coming into leaf, tbe mea- 


what best to say. 


dows full of flowers ; 




The neighbors met us in the lane, and every 


Then she was still : they sat awhile : at last 


face was kind ; 


she spoke again, 


'Tis strange how lively everything comes. 


" The Lord incline thee to the right !" and 


back upon my mind. 


" Thou shalt have him, Jane !" 




My father said. I cried. Indeed, 'twas not 


I see, as plain as thee sits there, the wedding-- 


the least of shocks, 


dinner spread ; 


For Benjamin was Hicksite, and father Or- 


At our own table we were guests, with father 


thodox. 


at the head, 




And Dinah Passmore helped us both ; 'twas 


I thought of this ten years ago, when daugh- 


she stood up with me. 


ter Ruth we lost : 


And Abner Jones with Benjamin : and now 


Her husband's of the world, and yet I could 


they're gone, all three ' 


not see her crossed. 




She wears, thee knows, the gayest gowns, she 


It is not right to wish for death ; the Lord 


hears a hireling priest ; 


disposes best. 


Ah, dear ! the cross was ours ; her life's a 


His Spirit comes to quiet hearts, and fits them 


happy one, at least. 


for His rest ; 




And that He halved our little flock was mer- 


Perhaps she'll wear a plainer dress when she's 


ciful, I see : 


as old as I. 


For Benjamin has two in heaven, and two. 


"Would thee believe it, Hannah ? once I felt 


are left with me. 


temptation nigh ! 




My wedding-gown was ashen silk, too simple 


Eusebius never cared to farm ; 'twas not his 


for my taste : 


call in truth, 


I wanted lace around the neck, and a ribbon 


And I must rent the dear old place, and go to 


at the waist. 


daughter Ruth. 




Thee'll say her ways are not like mine ; young 


How strange it seemed to sit with him upon 


people now-a-days 


the women's side ! 


Have fallen sadly off, I think, from all the 


I did not dare to lift my eyes : I felt more 


good old ways. 


fear than pride, 




Till, " in the presence of the Lord," he said, 


But Ruth is still a Friend at heart ; she keeps 


and then there came 


the simple tongue, 


A holy strength upon my heart, and I could 


The cheerful, kindly nature we loved when 


say the same. 


she was young ; 



112 



MR. STIVER'S HORSE. 



And it was brought upon my mind, remem- 


The soul it is that testifies of righteousness or 


bering her, of late, 


sin. 


That we on dress and outward things perhaps 




lay too much weight. 


Thee mustn't be too hard on Ruth ; she's anx- 




ious I should go, 


I once heard Jesse Kersey say, " a spirit 


And she will do her duty as a daughter should 


clothed with grace, 


I know. 


And pure, almost, as angels are, may have a 


'Tis hard to change so late in life, but we must 


homely face." 


be resigned ; 


And dress may be of less account ; the Lord 


The Lord looks down contentedly unon a 


will look within : 


willing mind. 



MR. STIVER'S HORSE. 



J. M. BAILEY. 




jpHE other morning at breakfast, Mrs. Perkins deserved that Mr. 
Stiver, in whose house we live, had been called away, and wanted 
to know if I would see to his horse through the day. 

I knew that Mr. Stiver owned a horse, because I occasionally 
saw him drive out of the yard, and I saw the stable every day ; but 
what kind of a horse I didn't know. I never went into the stable 
for two reasons : in the first place, I had no desire to ; and secondly, 
I didn't know as the horse cared particularly for company. 

I never took care of a horse in my life, and had I been of a less 
hopeful nature, the charge Mr. Stiver had left with me might have had 
a very depressing effect ; but I told Mrs. Perkins I would do it. 

" You know how to take care of a horse, don't you ? " said she. 
I gave her a reassuring wink. In fact, I knew so little about it that 
I didn't think it safe to converse more fluently than by winks. 

After breakfast I seized a toothpick and walked out toward the 
stable. There was nothing particular to do, as Stiver had given him his 
breakfast, and I found him eating it; so I looked around. The horse 
looked around, too, and stared pretty hard at me. There was but little 
said on either side. I hunted up the location of the feed, and then sat 
down on a peck measure, and fell to studying the beast. There is a wide 
difference in horses. Some of them will kick you over and never look 
around to see what becomes of you. I don't like a disposition like that, 
■and I wondered if Stiver's horse was one of them. 

"When I came home at noon I went straight to the stable. The 



MR. STIVER'S HORSE. 



113 



animal was there all right. Stiver hadn't told me what to give him for 
dinner, and I had not given the subject any thought; but I went to the 
oat box and filled the peck measure, and sallied up to the manger. 

When he saw the oats he almost smiled; this pleased and amused 
him. I emptied them into the trough, and left him above me to admire the 
way I parted my hair behind. I just got my head up in time to save 
the whole of it. He had his ears back, bis mouth open, and looked as 
if he were on the point of committing murder. I went out and filled the 
measure again, and climbed up the side of the stall and emptied it on top 
of him. He brought his head up so suddenly at this that I immediately 
got down, letting go of everything to do it. I struck on the sharp edge 
of a barrel, rolled over a couple of times, and 
then disappeared under a hay-cutter. The peck 
measure went down on the other side, and got 
mysteriously tangled up in that animals heels, 
and he w r ent to work at it, and then ensued the 
most dreadful noise I ever heard in all my life, 
and I have been married eighteen years. 

It did seem as if I never would get out from 
under that hay-cutter; and all the while I was 
struggling and wrenching myself and the cut- 
ter apart, that awful beast was kicking around 
in that stall, and making the most appalling 
sound imaginable. 

When I got out I found Mrs. Perkins at the 
door. She had heard the racket, and had sped 
out to the stable, her only thought being of me 
and three stove-lids which she had under her 
arm, and one of which she was about to fire at 
the beast. 

This made me mad. 
"Go away, you unfortunate idiot," I shouted; 
"do you want to knock my brains out ? " For 
I remembered seeing Mrs. Perkins sling a mis- 
sile once before, and that I nearly lost an eye 
by the operation, although standing on the 
other side of the house at the time. 

She retired at once. And at the same time the animal quieted 
down, but there was nothing left 01 that peek measure, not even the 
maker's name. 
8 




114 



MB. STIVER'S HOKSE. 



I followed Mrs. Perkins into the house, and had her do me up, and then 
sat down in a chair, and fell into a profound strain of meditation. After 
a while I felt better, and went out to the stable again. The horse was 
leaning against the stable stall, with eyes half-closed, and appeared to be 
very much engrossed in thought. 

"Step off to the left," I said, rubbing his back. 

He didn't step. I got the pitchfork and punched him in the leg with 
the handle. He immediately raised up both hind-legs at once, and that 
fork flew out of my hands, and went rattling up against the timbers above, 
and came down again in an instant, the end of the handle rapping me 
with such force on the top of the head that I sat right down on the floor 
under the impression that I was standing in front of a drug store in the 
evening. I went back to the house and got some more stuff on me. But 
I couldn't keep away from that stable. I went out there again. The 
thought struck me that what the horse wanted was exercise. If that 
thought had been an empty glycerine can, it would have saved a windfall 
of luck for me. 

But exercise would tone him down, and exercise him I should. I 
laughed to myself to think how I would trounce him around the yard. 
I didn't laugh again that afternoon. I got him unhitched, and then won- 
dered how I was to get him out of the 
stall without carrying him out. I 
pushed, but he wouldn't budge. I 
stood looking at him in the face, think- 
ing of something to say, when he sud- 
denly solved the difficulty by veering 
and plunging for the door. I followed^ 
as a matter of course, because I had 
a tight hold on the rope, and hit about 
every partition stud worth speaking of 
on that side of the barn. Mrs. Per- 
kins was at the window and saw us 
come out of the door. She subse- 
quently remarked that we came out 
skipping like two innocent children. 
The skipping was entirely unintentional on my part. I felt as if I stood 
on the verge of eternity. My legs may have skipped, but my mind was 
filled with awe. 

I took that animal out to exercise him. He exercised me before I 
got through with it. He went around a ft?w times in a circle; then he 




EXERCISED ME. 



MR. STIVER'S HORSE. H5 



stopped suddenly, spread out his fore-legs and looked at me. Then he 
leaned forward a little, and hoisted both hind-legs, and threw about two 
coal-hods of mud over a line full of clothes Mrs. Perkins had just hung 
out. 

That excellent lady had taken a position at the window, and when- 
ever the evolutions of the awful beast permitted, I caught a glance at her 
features. She appeared to be very much interested in the proceedings ; 
but the instant that the mud flew, she disappeared from the window, and 
a moment later she appeared on the stoop with a long poker in her 
hand, and fire enough in her eye to heat it red hot. 

Just then Stiver's horse stood up on his hind-legs and tried to hug 
me with the others. This scared me. A horse never shows his strength 
to such advantage as when he is coming down on you like a frantic pile- 
driver. I instantly dodged, and the cold sweat fairly boiled out of me. 

It suddenly came over me that I once figured in a similar position 
years ago. My grandfather owned a little white horse that would get up 
from a meal at Delmonico's to kick the President of the United States. 
He sent me to the lot one day, and unhappily suggested that I often went 
after that horse, and suffered all kinds of defeat in getting him out of the 
pasture, but I had never tried to ride him. Heaven knows I never 
thought of it. I had my usual trouble with him that day. He tried to 
jump over me, and push me down in a mud hole, and finally got up on his 
hind-legs and came waltzing after me with facilities enough to convert me 
into hash, but I turned and just made for that fence with all the agony a 
prospect of instant death could crowd into me. If our candidate for the 
Presidency had run one-half as well, there would be seventy-five post- 
masters in Danbury to-day, instead of one. 

I got him out finally, and then he was quiet enough, and took him up 
alongside the fence and got on him. He stopped an instant, one brief 
instant, and then tore off down the road at a frightful speed. I laid down 
m him and clasped -my hands tightly around his neck, and thought of my 
home. "When we got to the stable I was confident he would stop, but he 
didn't. He drove straight at the door. It was a low door, just high 
enough to permit him to go in at lightning speed, but there was no room 
for me. I saw if I struck that stable the struggle would be a very brief 
one. I thought this all over in an instant, and then, spreading out my 
arms and legs, emitted a scream, and the next moment I was bounding 
about in the filth of that stable yard. All this passed through my mind 
as Stiver's horse went up into the air. It frightened Mrs. Perkins dread- 



116 



WHISTLING IN HEAVEN. 



" Why, you old fool ! " she said, " why don't you get rid of him ? " 

" How can I ? " said I in desperation. 

" Why, there are a thousand ways," said she. 

This is just like a woman. How different a statesman would have 
answered. 

But I could only think of two ways to dispose of the beast, I could 
either swallow him where he stood and then sit down on him, or I could 
crawl inside of him and kick him to death. . 

But I was saved either of these expedients by his coming toward me so 
abruptly that I dropped the rope in terror, and then he turned about, 
and, kicking me full of mud, shot for the gate, ripping the clothes-line in 
two, and went on down the street at a horrible gallop, with two of Mrs. 
Perkins's garments, which he hastily snatched from the line, floating over 
his neck in a very picturesque manner. 

So I was afterwards told. I was too full of mud myself to see the 
way into the house. 

Stiver got his horse all right, and stays at home to care for him. 
Mrs. Perkins has gone to her mother's to recuperate, and I am healing as 
fast as possible. 




WHISTLING IN HE A VEN. 



W. S. EALPH. 




'OUR'E surprised that I ever should 
say so ? 
Just wait till the reason I've given 
Why I say I shan't care for the music, 
Unless there is whistling in heaven. 
Then you'll think it no very great wonder, 

Nor so strange, nor so bold a conceit, 
That unless there's a boy there a- whistling, 
Its music will not be complete. 



It was late in the autumn of '40 ; 

We had come from our far Eastern home 
Just in season to build us a cabin, 

Ere the cold of the winter should come ; 
And we lived all the while in our wagon 

That husband was clearing the place 
Where the house was to stand ; and the clear- 
ing 

And building it took many days. 



WHISTLING IN HEAVEN. 



117 



So that our heads were scarce sheltered 

In under its roof, when our store 
Of provisions was almost exhausted 

And husband must journey for more ; 
And the nearest place where he could get them 

Was yet such a distance away, 
That it forced him from home to be absent 

At least a whole night and a day. 

You see, we'd but two or three neighbors, 

And the nearest was more than a mile ; 
And we hadn't found time yet to know them, 

For we had been busy the while. 
And the man who had helped at the raising 

Just staid till the job was well done ; 
And as soon as his money was paid him, 

Had shouldered his axe and had gone. 

Well, husband just kissed me and started — 

I could scarcely suppress a deep groan 
At the thought of remaining with baby 

So long in the house all alone ; 
For, my dear, I was childish and timid, 

And braver ones might well have feared, 
For the wild wolf was often heard howling, 

And savages sometimes appeared. 

But I smothered my grief and my terror 

Till husband was off on his ride, 
And then in my arms I took Josey, 

And all the day long sat and cried, 
As I thought of the long, dreary hours 

When the darkness of night should fall, 
And i was so utterly helpless, 

With no one in reach of my call. 

And when the night came with its terrors, 

To hide ev'ry ray of the light, 
I hung up a quilt by the window, 

And almost dead with affright, 
I kneeled by the side of the cradle, 

Scarce daring to draw a full breath, 
Lest the baby should wake, and its crying 

Should bring us a horrible death. 

There I knelt until late in the evening, 
And scarcely an inch had I stirred, 

When suddenly, far in the distance, 
A sound as of whistling I heard, 



I started up dreadfully frightened, 

For fear 'twas an Indian's call; 
And then very soon I remembered 

The red man ne'er whistles at all. 

And when I was sure 'twas a white man, 
I thought, were he coming for ill, 

He'd surely approach with more caution- 
Would come without warning, and still. 

Then the sounds, coming nearer and nearer, 
Took the form of a tune light and gay, 

And I knew I needn't fear evil 

From one who could whistle that way. 

Very soon I heard footsteps approaching, 

Then came a peculiar dull thump, 
As if some one was heavily striking 

An axe in the top of a stump ; 
And then,, in another brief moment, 

There came a light tap on the door, 
When quickly I undid the fast'ning, 

And in stepped a boy, and before 

There was either a question or answer, 

Or either had time to speak, 
I just threw my glad arms around him, 

And gave him a kiss on the cheek. 
Then I started back, scared at my boldness, 

But he only smiled at my fright, 
As he said, " I'm your neighbor's boy, Alick, 

Come to tarry with you through the night 

" We saw your husband go eastward, 

And made up our minds where he'd gone, 
And I said to the rest of our people, 

' That woman is there all alone, 
And I venture she's awfully lonesome, 

And though she may have no great fear, 
I think she would feel a bit safer 

If only a boy were but near; 

" So, taking my axe on my shoulder, 

For fear that a savage might stray 
Across my path and need scalping, 

I started right down this way ; 
And coming in sight of the cabin, 

And thinking to save you alarm, 
I whistled a tune, just to show you 

I didn't intend any harm. 



118 



GOOD-NIGHT, PAPA. 



" And so here I am, at your service ; 

But if you don't want me to stay, 
Why, all you need do is to say so, 

And should'ring my axe, I'll away." 
I dropped in a chair and near fainted, 

Just at thought of his leaving me then, 
And his eye gave a knowing bright twinkle, 

As he said, " I guess I'll remain." 

And then I just sat there and told him 
How terribly frightened I'd been, 

How his face was to me the most welcome 
Of any I ever had seen ; 



And then I lay down with the baby, 
And slept all the blessed night through. 

For I felt I was safe from all danger 
Near so brave a young fellow and true. 

So now, my dear friend, do you wonder, 

Since such a good reason I've given, 
Why I think it the sweetest music, 

And wisli to hear whistling in heaven ? 
Yes, often I've said so in earnest, 

And now what I've said I repeat, 
That unless there's a boy there a- whistling, 

Its music will not be complete. 



GOOD-NIGHT PAPA, 



lippHE words of a blue-eyed child as she kissed her chubby hand and 

gplb looked down the stairs, " Good-night, papa ; Jessie see you in the 

^W^ morning," 

& It came totbe a settled thing, and every evening as the mother 

j- slipped the white night-gown over the plump shoulders, the little one 

stopped on the stairs and sang out, " Good-night, papa," and as the 

father heard the silvery accents of the child, he came, and taking the 

cherub in his arms, kissed her tenderly, while the mother's eyes filled, and 

a swift prayer went up, for, strange to say, this man who loved his child 

with all the warmth of his great noble nature, had one fault to mar his 

manliness. From his youth he loved the wine-cup. Genial in spirit, and 

with a fascination of manner that won him friends, he could not resist when 

surrounded by his boon companions. Thus his home was darkened, the 

heart of his wife bruised and bleeding, the future of his child shadowed. 

Three years had the winsome prattle of the baby crept into the 
avenues of the father's heart, keeping him closer to his home, but still the 
fatal cup was in his hand. Alas for frail humanity, insensible to the calls 
of love ! With unutterable tenderness God saw there was no other way ; 
this father was dear to him, the purchase of his Son ; he could not see him 
perish, and, calling a swift messenger, he said, li Speed thee to earth and 
bring the babe." 

" Good-night, papa," sounded from the stairs. What was there in 
the voice ? was it the echo of the mandate, " Bring me the babe ? " — a 
silvery plaintive sound, a lingering music that touched the father's heart, 



GOOD-NIGHT, PAPA. H9 



as when a cloud crosses the sun. " Good-night, my darling; " but his lips 
quivered and his broad brow grew pale. " Is Jessie sick, mother ? Her 
cheeks are flushed, and her eyes have a strange light." 

" Not sick," and the mother stooped to kiss the flushed brow; "she 
may have played too much. Pet is not sick ? " 

"Jessie tired, mamma; good-night, papa; Jessie see you in the 
morning." 

" That is all, she is only tired," said the mother as she took the small 
hand. Another kiss and the father turned away; but his heart was not 
satisfied. 

Sweet lullabies were sung ; but Jessie was restless and could not sleep. 
"Tell me a story, mamma;" and the mother told her of the blessed babe 
that Mary cradled, following along the story till the child had grown to 
walk and play. The blue, wide open eyes, filled with a strange light, as 
though she saw and comprehended more than the mother knew. 

That night the father did not visit the saloon ; tossing on his bed, 
starting from a feverish sleep and bending over the crib, the long weary hours 
passed. Morning revealed the truth — Jessie was smitten with the fever. 

" Keep her quiet," the doctor said ; " a few days of good nursing, and 
she will be all right." 

Words easily said ; but the father saw a look on that sweet face such 
as he had seen before. He knew the messenger was at the door. 

Night came. "Jessie is sick; can't say good-night, papa; " and the 
little clasping fingers clung to the father's hand. 

" God, spare her ! I cannot, cannot bear it ! " was wrung from his 
suffering heart. 

Days passed ; the mother was tireless in her watching. With her 
babe cradled in her arms her heart was slow to take in the truth, doing 
her best to solace the father's heart ; "A light case ! the doctor says, Pet 
will soon be well." 

Calmly as one who knows his doom, the father laid his hand upon the 
hot brow, looked into the eyes even then covered with the film of death, 
and with all the strength of his manhood cried, " Spare her, O God ! spare 
my child, and I will follow thee." 

With a last painful effort the parched lips opened : " Jessie's too sick ; 
can't say good-night, papa — in the morning." There was a convulsive 
shudder, and the clasping fingers relaxed their hold ; the messenger had 
taken the child. 

Months have passed. Jessie's crib stands by the side of her father's 
couch ; her blue embroidered dress and white hat hang in his closet ; her 



120 



CHARLEY'S OPINION OF THE BABY. 



boots with the print of her feet just as she had last worn them, as sacred 
in his eyes as they are in the mother's. Not dead, but merely risen to a 
higher life; while, sounding down from the upper stairs, "Good-night, 
papa, Jessie see you in the morning," has been the means of winning to a 
better way one who had shown himself deaf to every former call. 



CH ABLETS OPINION OF THE BABY. 




UZZER'S bought a baby, 
Ittle bit's of zing; 
Zink I mos could put him 
Froo my rubber ring. 



Ain't he awful ugly? 

Ain't he awful pink? 
Jus come down from Heaven, 

Pat's a fib, I zink. 




Doctor told anozzer 

Great big awful lie; 

Nose ain't out of joyent, 
Dat ain't why I cry. 




Zink I ought to love him ! 

No, I won't! so zere; 
Nassy, crying baby, 

Ain't got any hair. 




UNCLE DAN'L'S APPARITION AND PRAYER. 



121 



Send me off wiz Biddy 

Evry single day; 
' Be a good boy, Charlie, 
Run away and play." 




Dot all my nice kisses, 
Dot my place in bed; 

Mean to take my drumstick 
And beat him on ze head. 




UNCLE DAN'L'S APPARITION AND PRA YER. 



FROM " THE GILDED AGE OF CLEMENS AND WARNER. 




tap HATE YER the lagging, dragging journey may have been to the 
rest of the emigrants, it was a wonder and a delight to the 
children, a world of enchantment ; and they believed it to be 
peopled with the mysterious dwarfs and giants and goblins that 
figured in the tales the negro slaves were in the habit of telling them 
nightly by the shuddering light of the kitchen fire. 

At the end of nearly a week of travel, the party went into camp near 
a shabby village which was caving, house, by house into the hungry Missis- 
sippi. The river astonished the children beyond measure. Its mile- 
breadth of water seemed an ocean to them, in the shadowy twilight, and 
the vague riband of trees on the farther shore, the verge of a continent 
which surely none but they had ever seen before. 

" Uncle Dan'l " (colored,) aged 40 ; his wife, " aunt Jinny," aged 30, 
"Young Miss" Emily Hawkins, " Young Mars" Washington Hawkins and 
u Young Mars " Clay, the new member of the family, ranged themselves 
on a log, after supper, and contemplated the marvelous river and discussed 



122 UNCLE DAN'L'S APPARITION AND PRAYER. 

it. The moon rose and sailed aloft through a maze of shredded cloud- 
wreaths ; the sombre river just perceptibly brightened under the veiled 
light ; a deep silence pervaded the air and was emphasized, at intervals, 
rather than broken, by the hooting of an owl, the baying of a dog, or the 
muffled crash of a caving bank in the distance. 

The little company assembled on the log were all children, (at least in 
simplicity and broad and comprehensive ignorance,) and the remarks they 
made about the river were in keeping with their character ; and so awed 
were they by the grandeur and the solemnity of the scene before them, and 
by their belief that the air was filled with invisible spirits and that the 
faint zephyrs were caused by their passing wings, that all their talk took 
to itself a tinge of the supernatural, and their voices were subdued to a low 
and reverent tone. Suddenly Uncle Danl exclaimed : 

" Chil'en, dah's sumfin a comin' ! " 

All crowded close together and every heart beat faster. Uncle Danl 
pointed down the river with his bony finger. 

A deep coughing sound troubled the stillness, way toward a wooded 
cape that jutted into the stream a mile distant. All in an instant a fierce 
eye of fire shot out from behind the cape and sent a long brilliant pathway 
quivering athwart the dusky water. The coughing grew louder and louder, 
the glaring eye grew larger and still larger, glared wilder and still wilder. 
A huge shape developed itself out of the gloom, and from its tall duplicate 
horns dense volumes of smoke, starred and spangled with sparks, poured 
out and went tumbling away into the farther darkness. Nearer and 
nearer the thing came, till its long sides began to glow with spots of light 
which mirrored themselves in the river and attended the monster like a 
torchlight procession. 

" What is it ! Oh, what is it, Uncle Danl ! " 

With deep solemnity the answer came : 

" It's de Almighty ! Git down on yo' knees ! " 

It was not necessary to say it twice. They were all kneeling, in a 
moment. And then while the mysterious coughing rose stronger and 
stronger and the threatening glare reached farther and wider, the negro's 
voice lifted up its supplications : 

" Lord, we's ben mighty wicked, an' we knows dat we 'zerve to go 
to de bad place, but good Lord, deah Lord, we aint ready yit, we aint 
ready — let these po' chil'en hab one mo' chance, jes' one mo' chance. Take 
de ole niggah if you's got to hab somebody. — Good Lord, good deah Lord, 
we don't know whah you's a gwine to, we don't know who you's got yo' 
eye on, but we knows by de way you's a comin', we knows by the way 



UNCLE DAN'L'S APPARITION AND PRAYER. 123 

you's a tiltin' along in yo' charyot o' nah dat some po' sinner's a gwine to 
ketch it. But good Lord, dese chil'en don't b'long heah, dey's f'm Obeds- 
town whah dey don't know nuffin, an' yoa knows, yo' own sef, dat dey aint 
sponsible. An' deab Lord, good Lord, it aint like yo' mercy, it aint like 
yo' pity, it aint like yo' long-suffer in' lovin'-kindness for to take dis kind o' 
'vantage o' sicb little chil'en as dese is when dey's so many ornery grown 
folks chuck full o' cussedness dat wants roastin' down dah. Lord, spah 
de little chil'en, don't tar de little clnTen away f'm dey frens, jes' let 'em 
off dis once, and take it out'n de ole niggah. Heah I is, Lord, heah I 
is ! De ole niggah's ready, Lord, de ole " 

The naming and churning steamer was right abreast the party, and 
not twenty steps away. The awful thunder of a mud-valve suddenly burst 
forth, drowning the prayer, and as suddenly Uncle Dan'l snatched a child 
under each arm and scoured into the woods with the rest of the pack at his 
heels. And then, ashamed of himself, he halted in the deep darkness and 
shouted, (but rather feebly :) 

" Heah I is, Lord, heah I is ! " 

There was a moment of throbbing suspense, and then, to the surprise 
and comfort of the party, it was plain that the august presence had gone 
by, for its dreadful noises were receding. Uncle Dan'l headed a cautious 
reconnoissance in the direction of the log. Sure enough " the Lord " was 
just turning a point a short distance up the river, and while they looked, 
the lights winked out and the coughing diminished by degrees and pre- 
sently ceased altogether. 

u H'wsh ! Well now dey's some folks says dey aint no 'ficiency in 
prah. Dis chile would like to know whah we'd a ben now if it warn't fo' 
dat prah ? Dat's it. Dat's it ! " 

" Uncle Dan'l, do you reckon it was the prayer that saved us ? " said 
Clay. 

" Does I reckon ? Don't I knoio it ! "Whah was yo' eyes ? Warn't 
de Lord jes' a comin' chow I chow ! chow ! an' a goin' on tumble — an' do 
de Lord carry on dat way 'dout dey's sumfin don't suit him ? An' warn't 
he a lookin' right at dis gang heah, an' warn't he jes' a reachin' for 'em ? 
An' d'you spec' he gwine to let 'em off 'dout somebody ast him to do it ? 
No indeedy ! " 

" Do you reckon he saw us, Uncle Dan'l ? " 

" De law sakes, chile, didn't I see him a lookin' at us ? " 

" Did you feel scared, Uncle Dan'l ? " 

" No sah ! When a man is 'gaged in prah, he aint 'fraid o' nuffin — 
dey can't nuffin tetch him." 



224 SOCRATES SNOOKS. 



" Well what did you run for ? " 

" Well, I — I — Mars Clay, when a man is under de influence ob de 
sperit, he do-no what he's 'bout — no sah ; dat man do-no what he's 'bout. 
You might take an' tah de head off'n dat man an' he wouldn't scasely fine 
it out. Dah's de Hebrew chil'en dat went frough de fiah ; dey was burnt 
considable — ob eoase dey was ; but dey didn't know nufnn 'bout it — heal 
right up agin; if dey'd ben gals dey'd missed dey long haah, (hair,) maybe, 
but dey wouldn't felt de burn." 

" I don't know but what they were girls. I think they were." 

" Now Mars Clay, you knows better'n dat. Sometimes a body can't 
tell whedder you's a sayin' what you means or whedder you's a saying what 
you don't mean, 'case you says 'em bofe de same way." 

" But how should /know whether they were boys or girls ? ' 

" Goodness sakes, Mars Clay, don't de good book say ? 'Sides, don't 
it call 'em de iTe-brew chil'en ? If dey was gals would'n dey be de she- 
brew chil'en ? Some people dat kin read don't 'pear to take no notice when 
dey do read." 

" Well, Uncle Dan'l, I think that My ! here comes another 

one up the river ! There can't be two ! " 

" We gone dis time — we done gone dis time sho' ! Dey aint two, Mars 
day — dat's de same one. De Lord kin 'pear eberywhah in a second. 
Goodness, how de fiah an' de smoke do belch up ! Dat mean business, 
honey. He comin' now like he fo'got sumfin. Come 'long, chil'en, time 
you's gwine to roos'. Go 'long wid you — ole Uncle Dan'l gwine out in de 
woods to rastle in prah — de ole niggah gwine to do what he kin to sabe 
you agin." 

He did go to the woods and pray; but he went so far that he doubted, 
himself, if the Lord heard him when He went by. 



SOCRATES SNOOKS. 




ISTER Socrates Snooks, a lord of 

creation, 
The second time entered the married 

relation : 
Xantippe Caloric accepted his hand, 
And they thought him the happiest man 

in the land. 
But scarce had the honeymoon passed 
o'er his head, 



When one morning to Xantippe, Socrates said, 
" I thmk, for a man of my standing in life, 
This house is too small, as I now have a wife : 
So, as early as possible, carpenter Carey 
Shall be sent for to widen my house and my 
dairy." 

" Now, Socrates, dearest," Xantippe replied, 
" I hate to hear everything vulgarly my'd; 



TOO LATE FOR THE TRAIN. 



12* 



Now, whenever you speak of your chattels 
again, 

Say, our cow-honse, our barn-yard, our pig- 
pen." 

" By your leave, Mrs. Snooks, I will say 
what I please 

Of my houses, my lands, my gardens, my 
trees." 

"Say our,'' Xantippe exclaimed in a rage. 

41 1 won't, Mrs. Snooks, though you ask it an 
age!" 

Oh, woman! though only a part of man's 

rib, 
If the story in Genesis don't tell a fib, 
Should your naughty companion e'er quarrel 

with you, 
You are certain to prove the best man of the 

two. 
In the following case this was certainly true ; 
.For the lovely Xantippe just pulled off her 

shoe, 
And laying about her, all sides at random, 
The adage was verified — " Nil desperandum." 

Mister Socrates Snooks, after trying in vain, 
To ward off the blows which descended like 
rain — 



Concluding that valor's best part was discre- 
tion — 

Crept Under the bed like a terrified Hessian ; 

But the dauntless Xantippe, not one whit 
afraid, 

Converted the siege into a blockade. 

At last, after reasoning the thing in his pate, 

He concluded 'twas useless to strive against 
fate : 

And so, like a tortoise protruding his head, 

Said, " My dear, may we come out from un- 
der our bed?" 

" Hah ! hah !" she exclaimed, " Mr. Socrates 
Snooks, 

I perceive you agree to my terms by your 
looks : 

Now, Socrates — hear me — from this happy 
hour, 

If you'll only obey me, I'll never look sour." 

'Tis said the next Sabbath, ere going to 

church, 
He chanced for a clean pair of trowsers to 

search : 
Having found them, he asked, with a few 

nervous twitches, 
" My dear, may we put on our new Sunday 

breeches ?" 



TOO LATE FOR THE TRAIN. 



^iiffHEISr they reached the depot, Mr. Mann and his wife gazed in 




unspeakable disappointment at the receding train, which was 
just pulling away from the bridge switch at the rate of a mile a 
minute. Their first impulse was to run after it, but as the train 
t was out of sight and whistling for Sagetown before they could 
» act upon the impulse, they remained in the carriage and discon- 

solately turned their horses' heads homeward. 

Mr. Mann broke the silence, very grimly : " It all comes of having to 
wait for a woman to get ready." 

" I was ready before you were," replied his wife. 
" Great heavens," cried Mr. Mann, with great impatience, nearly 
jerking the horse's jaws out of place, "just listen to that ! And I sat in 



126 



TOO LATE FOR THE TRAIN. 



the buggy ten minutes yelling at you to come along until the whole neigh- 
borhood heard me." 

" Yes," acquiesced Mrs. Mann, with the provoking placidity which no 
one can assume but a woman, " and every time I started down stairs, you 
sent me back for something you had forgotten." 

Mr. Mann groaned. " This is too much to bear," he said, " when 
everybody knows that if I were going to Europe I would just rush into 
the house, put on a clean shirt, grab up my grip-sack, and fly, while you 
would want at least six months for preliminary preparations, and then 
dawdle around the whole day of starting until every train had left town." 
Well, the upshot of the matter was that the Manns put off their visit 
to Aurora until the next week, and it was agreed that each one should get 
himself or herself ready and go down to the train and go, and the one who 
failed to get ready should be left. The day of the match came around in 
due time. The train was going at 10.30, and Mr. Mann, after attending 
to his business, went home at 9.45. 

"Now, then," he shouted, "only three-quarters of an hour's time. 
Fly around ; a fair field and no favors, you know." 

And away they flew. Mr. Mann bulged 
into this room and flew through that one, and 
dived into one closet after another with incon- 
ceivable rapidity, chuckling under his breath 
all the time to think how cheap Mrs. Mann 
would feel when he started off alone. He 
stopped on his way up stairs to pull off his 
heavy boots to save time. For the same rea- 
son he pulled off his coat as he ran through 
the dining-room, and hung it on a corner of 
the silver-closet. Then he jerked off his vest 
as he rushed through the hall and tossed it on 
the hat-rack hook, and by the time he had 
reached his own room he was ready to plunge 
into his clean clothes. He pulled out a bureau- 
drawer and began to paw at the things like a 
Scotch terrier after a rat. 

"Eleanor," he shrieked, "where are my 
shirts ? " 
" In your bureau drawer," calmly replied Mrs. Mann, who was standing 
before a glass calmly and deliberately coaxing a refractory crimp into 
place. 




TOO LATE FOR THE TRAIN. 



127 



" Well, but they ain't," shouted Mr. Mann, a little annoyed. " I've 
emptied everything out of the drawer, and there isn't a thing in it I ever 
saw before." 

Mrs. Mann stepped back a few paces, held her head on one side, and 
after satisfying herself that the crimp would do, replied : " These things 
scattered around on the floor are all mine. Probably you haven't been 
looking into your own drawer." 

"I don't see," testily observed Mr. Mann, "why you couldn't have 
put my things out for me when you had nothing else to do all the 
morning." 

" Because," said Mrs. Mann, setting herself into an additional article 
of raiment with awful deliberation, "nobody put mine out for me. A fair 
field and no favors, my dear." 

Mr. Mann plunged into his shirt like a bull at a red flag. 

" Foul ! " he shouted in malici- 
ous triumph. " No buttons on the 
neck ! " 

"Because," said Mrs. Mann, sweet- 
ly, after a deliberate stare at the 
fidgeting, impatient man, during which 
she buttoned her dress and put eleven 
pins where they would do the most 
good, " because you have got the shirt 
on wrong side out." 

When Mr. Mann slid cut of the 
shirt he began to sweat. He dropped 
the shirt three times before he got it 
on, and while it was over his head he 
heard the clock strike ten. When his 

head came through he saw Mrs. Mann coaxing the ends and bows of her 
necktie. 

" Where are my shirt-studs ? " he cried. 

Mrs. Mann went out into another room and presently came back with 
gloves and hat, and saw Mr. Mann emptying all the boxes he could find 
in and around the bureau. Then she said, "In the shirt you just 
pulled off." 

Mrs. Mann put on her gloves while Mr. Mann hunted up and down 
the room for his cuff-buttons. 

" Eleanor," he snarled at last, " I believe you must know where 
those cuff-buttons are." 




128 TOO LATE FOR THE TRAIN. 

"I haven't seen them," said the lady settling her hat; " didn't you 
lay them down on the window-sill in the sitting-room last night ? " 

Mr. Mann remembered, and he went down stairs on the run. He 
stepped on one of his boots and was immediately landed in the hall at the 
foot of the stairs with neatness and dispatch, attended in the transmis- 
sion with more bumps than he could count with Webb's Adder, and landed 
with a bang like the Hell Gate explosion. 

" Are you nearly ready, Algernon ? " sweetly asked the wife of his 
bosom, leaning over the banisters. 

The unhappy man groaned. "Can't you throw me down the other 
boot ? " he asked. 

Mrs. Mann piteously kicked it down to him. 

" My valise ? " he inquired, as he tugged at the boot. 

" Up in your dressing-room," she answered. 

" Packed?" 

" I do not know ; unless you packed it yourself, probably not," she 
replied, with her hand on the door-knob ; " I had barely time to pack my 
own." 

She was passing out of the gate when the door opened, and he 
shouted, " Where in the name of goodness did you put my vest ? It has 
all my money in it." 

" You threw it on the hat-rack," she called. "Good-bye, dear." 

Before she, got to the corner of the street she was hailed again : 

" Eleanor ! Eleanor ! Eleanor Mann ! Did you wear off my coat ? " 

She paused and turned, after signaling the street-car to stop, and 
cried, " You threw it in the silver-closet." 

The street-car engulfed her graceful form and she was seen no more. 
But the neighbors say that they heard Mr. Mann charging up and down 
the house, rushing out of the front-door every now and then, shrieking 
after the unconscious Mrs. Mann, to know where his hat was, and where 
she put the valise key, and if she had his clean socks and undershirts, and 
that there wasn't a linen collar in the house. And when he went away 
at last, he left the kitchen-door, the side-door and the front-door, all the 
down-stairs windows and the front-gate wide open. 

The loungers around the depot were somewhat amused, just as the 
train was pulling out of sight down in the yards, to see a flushed, enter- 
prising man, with his hat on sideways, his vest unbuttoned and necktie 
flying, and his grip-sack flapping open and shut like a demented shutter 
on a March night, and a door-key in his nand, dash wildly across the plat- 
form and halt in the middle of the track, glaring in dejected, impotent, 



THE UNBOLTED DOOR. 



129 



wr a mrul mortification at the departing train, and shaking his fist at a 
pretty woman who was throwing kisses at him from the rear platform of 
the last car. 




THE UNBOLTED DOOR. 



EDWARD 

-Sfe- — 

CARE-WORN widow sat alone 
Beside her fading hearth ; 
^ggM-, Her silent cottage never hears 

The ringing laugh of mirth. 
Six children once had sported there, but now 

the church-yard snow 
Fell softly on five little graves that were not 



bgo. 



She mourned them all with patient love ; 

But since, her eyes had shed 
Far bitterer tears than those which dewed 
The faces of the dead, — 
The child which had been spared to her, the 

darling' of her pride, 
The woful mother lived to wish that she had 
also died. 

Those little ones beneath the snow, 
She well knew where they are ; 
" Close gathered to the throne of God," 

And that was better far. 
But when she saw where Katy was, she saw 

the city's glare, 
The painted mask of bitter joy that need 
gave sin to wear. 
9 



GARRETT. 



Without, the snow lay thick and white-; 

No step had fallen there ; 
Within, she sat beside her fire, 
Each thought a silent prayer ; 
When suddenly behind her seat unwonted 

noise she heard, 
As though a hesitating hand the rustic latch 
had stirred. 

She turned, and there the wanderer stood 

With snow-flakes on her hair ; 
A faded woman, wild and worn, 
The ghost of something fair. 
And then upon the mother's breast the 

whitened head was laid, 
" Can God and you forgive me all ? for I have 
sinned," she said. 

The widow dropped upon her knees 

Before the fading fire, 
And thanked the Lord whose love at last 

Had granted her desire ; 
The daughter kneeled beside her, too, tears 
streaming from her eyes, 
And prayed, " God help me to be gcod to 
mother ere she dies." 



130 



THE VAGABONDS. 



They did not talk about the sin, 
The shame, the bitter woe ; 
They spoke about those little graves 
And things of long ago. 
And then the daughter raised her eyes and 

asked in tender tone, 
"Why did you keep your door unbarred 
when you were all alone ?" 



" My child," the widow said, and smiled 

A smile of love and pain, 
" I kept it so lest you should come 

And turn away again ! 
I've waited for you all the while — a mother's 

love is true ; 
Yet this is but a shadowy type of His who 
died for you!" 




E are two travelers, Roger and I. 
Roger's my dog ; — come here, you 



scamp 



-mind 



Jump for the gentleman, 

your eye! 
Over the table, — look out for the 

lamp ! — 
The rogue is growing a little old : 



Five years we've tramped through wind 
and weather, 
And slept out-doors when nights were cold, 
And ate and drank — and starved to- 
gether. 

We've learned what comfort is, I tell you ! 
A bed on tne floor, a bit of rosin, 



THE YANKEE AND THE DUTCHMAN'S DOG. 



131 



A fire to thaw our thumbs, (poor fellow ! 

The paw he holds up there's been frozen,) 
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle, 

(This out-door business is bad for strings,) 
Then a few nice buckwheats, hot from the 
griddle, 

And Roger and I set up for kings ! 



Why not reform ? That's easily said ; 

But I've gone through such wretched treat- 
ment, 
Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread, 

And scarce remembering what meat meant, 
That my poor stomach 's past reform ; 

And there are times when, mad with think- 
ing. 
I'd sell out heaven for something warm 

To prop a horrible inward sinking. 

Is there a way to forget to think ? 

At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends, 
A dear girl's love, — but I took to drink ; — 

The same old story ; you know how it ends. 
If you could have seen these classic features, — 

You needn't laugh, sir ; they were not then 
Such a burning libel on God's creatures : 

I was one of your handsome men ! 

If you had seen her, so fair and young, 

Whose head was happy on this breast ! 
If you could have heard the songs I sung 

When the wine went round, you wouldn't 
have guessed 
That ever I, sir, should be straying 

From door to door, with fiddle and dog, 
Ragged and penniless, and playing 

To you to-night for a glass of grog ! 



She's married since, — a parson's wife : 

'Twas better for her that we should part,— 
Better the soberest, prosiest life 

Than a blasted home and a broken heart. 
I have seen her ? Once : I was weak and 
spent 

On the dusty road, a carriage stopped ; 
But little she dreamed, as on she went, 

Who kissed the coin that her fingers 
dropped ! 

You've set me talking, sir ; I'm sorry ; 

It makes me wild to think of the change ! 
What do you care for a beggar's story ? 

Is it amusing ? you find it strange ? 
I had a mother so proud of me ! 

'Twas well she died before Do you know 

If the happy spirits in heaven can see 

The ruin and wretchedness here below ? 

Another glass, and strong, to deaden 

This pain ; then Roger and I will start, 
I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden, 
' Aching thing, in place of a heart ? 
He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he 
could, 
No doubt, remembering things that were, — 
A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food, 
' And himself a sober, respectable cur. 

I'm better now ; that glass was warming, — 

You rascal ! limber your lazy feet ! 
We must be fiddling and performing 

For supper and bed, or starve in the street 
Not a very gay life to lead, you think ? 

But soon we shall go where lodgings are 
free, 
And the sleepers need neither victuals nor 
drink ; — ■ 

The sooner the better for Roger and me ! 




THE YANKEE AND THE DUTCHMAN'S DOG 



IKAM 



was a quiet, peaceable sort of a Yankee, who lived on the 
same farm on which his fathers had lived before him, and was 
generally considered a pretty cute sort of a fellow, — always ready 
with a trick, whenever it was of the least utility ; yet, when he did 



132 THE YANKEE AND THE DUTCHMAN'S DOG. 

play any of his tricks, 'twas done in such an innocent manner, that his 
victim could do no better than take it all in good part. 

Now, it happened that one of Hiram's neighbors sold a farm to a 
tolerably green specimen of a Dutchman, — one of the real unintelligent, 
stupid sort. 

Von Vlom Schlopsch had a dog, as Dutchmen often have, who was 
less unintelligent than his master, and who had, since leaving his " fader- 
land," become sufficiently civilized not only to appropriate the soil as 
common stock, but had progressed so far in the good work as to obtain his 
dinners from the neighbors' sheepfold on the same principle. 

When Hiram discovered this propensity in the canine department of 
the Dutchman's family, he walked over to his new neighbor's to enter com- 
plaint, which mission he accomplished in the most natural method in the 
world. 

" Wall, Von, your dog Blitzen's been killing my sheep." 

" Ya ! dat ish bace — bad. He ish von goot tog : ya ! dat ish 
bad ! " 

" Sartin, it's bad; and you'll have to stop 'im." 

"Ya! dat ish alias goot ; but ich weis nicht." 

" What's that you say ? he was nicked f Wall, now look here, old 
fellow ! nickin's no use. Crop 'im ; cut his tail off close, chock up to his 
trunk ; that'll cure 'im." 

" Vat ish dat ? " exclaimed the Dutchman, while a faint ray of intelli- 
gence crept over his features. " Ya ! dat ish goot. Dat cure von sheep 
steal, eh ? " 

" Sartin it will : he'll never touch sheep meat again in this world," 
said Hiram gravely. 

" Den come mit me. He yon mity goot tog ; all the way from Yar- 
many : I not take von five dollar — but come mit me, and h^ld his tail, eh? 
Ich chop him off.* 

" Sartin," said Hiram: "I'll hold his tail if you want me tew; but 
you must cut it up close." 

" Ya ! dat ish right. Ich make 'im von goot tog. There, Blitzen, 
Blitzen ! come right here, you von sheep steal rashcull : I chop your tail 
in von two pieces." 

The dog obeyed the summons ; and the master tied his feet fore and 
aft, for fear of accident, and placing the tail in the Yankee's hand, re- 
quested him to lay it across a large block of wood. 

" Chock up," said Hiram, as he drew the butt of the tail close over 
the log. 



SONG OF MARION'S MEN. 



133 



"Ya! dat ish right. Now, you von 
tief sheep, I learns you better luck," 
said Von Vlom Schlopsch, as he raised 
the axe. 

It descended ; and as it did so, 
Hiram, with characteristic presence of 
mind, gave a sudden jerk, and brought 
Blitzen's neck over the log ; and the 
head rolled over the other side. 

" Wall, I swow ! " said Hiram 
with apparent astonishment, as he 
dropped the headless trunk of the dog ; 
"that was a leetle too close." 

" Mine cootness ! " exclaimed the 
Dutchman, "you shust cut 'im off de 
wrong end/" 




SONG OF MARION'S MEN. 



W. C. BRYANT. 




UR. band is few, but true and tried, 
Our leader frank and bold ; 
The British soldier trembles 

When Marion's name is told. 
Our fortress is the good greenwood, 

Our tent the cypress-tree ; 
We know the forest round us, 
As seamen know the sea ; 
We know its walls of thorny vines, 

Its glades of reedy grass, 
Its safe and silent islands 
Within the dark morass. 



Woe to the English soldiery 

That little dread us near ! 
On them shall light at midnight 

A strange and sudden fear ; 
When, waking to their tents on fire; 

They grasp their arms in vain, 
And they who stand to face us 

Are beat to earth again ; 



And they who fly in terror deem 

A mighty host behind, 
And hear the tramp of thousands 

Upon the hollow wind. 

Then sweet the hour that brings release 

From danger and from toil ; 
We talk the battle over, 

And share the battle's spoil. 
The woodland rings with laugh and shout 

As if a hunt were up, 
And woodland flowers are gathered 

To crown the soldier's cup. 
With merry songs we mock the wind 

That in the pine-top grieves, 
And slumber long and sweetly 

On beds of oaken leaves. 

Well knows the fair and friendly moon 
The band that Marion leads, — 

The glitter of their rifles, 

The scampering of their steeds. 



134 



DEATH OF LITTLE JO. 



'Tis life to guide the fiery barb 

Across the moonlit plain ; 
'Tis life to feel the night- wind 

That lifts his tossing mane. 
A moment in the British camp — 

A moment — and away- 
Back to the pathless forest, 

Before the peep of day. 

Grave men there are by broad Santee, 
Grave men with hoary hairs ; 



Their hearts are all with Marion, 

For Marion are their prayers. 
And lovely ladies greet our band 

With kindliest welcoming, 
With smiles like those of summer, 

And tears like those of spring. 
For them we wear these trusty arms, 

And lay them down no more 
Till we have driven the Briton 

Forever from our shore. 



DEATH OF LITTLE JO. 



CHARLES DICKENS. 




^0 is very glad to see his old friend ; and says, when they are left 
alone, that he takes it uncommon kind as Mr. Sangsby should 
come so far out of his way on accounts of sich as him. Mr. 
Sangbsy, touched by the spectacle before him, immediately lays 
upon the table half-a-crown ; that magic balsam of his for all 
kinds of wounds. 

"And how do you find yourself, my poor lad?" inquired the sta- 
tioner, with his cough of sympathy. 

" I'm in luck, Mr. Sangsby, I am," returns Jo, " and don't want for 
nothink. I'm more cumfbler nor you can't think, Mr. Sangsby. I'm 
wery sorry that I done it, but I didn't go fur to do it, sir." 

The stationer softly lays down another half-crown, and asks him what 
it is that he is sorry for having done. 

" Mr. Sangsby," says Jo, "I went and giv a illness to the lady as wos 
and yet as warn't the t'other lady, and none of 'em never says nothink to 
me for having done it, on accounts of their being so good and my having 
been s' unfortnet. The lady come herself and see me yes'day, and she ses, 
' Ah Jo ! ' she ses. ' We thought we'd lost you, Jo ! ' she ses. And she 
sits down a smilin so quiet, and don't pass a word nor yit a look upon me 
for having done it, she don't, and I turns agin the wall, I doos, Mr. 
Sangsby. And Mr. Jarnders, I see him a forced to turn away his own 
self. And Mr. Woodcot, he come fur to give me somethink for to. ease 
me, wot he's alius a doin on day and night, and wen he comes a bendin 
over me and a speakin up so bold, I see his tears a fallin, Mr. Sangsby." 



DEATH OF LITTLE JO. 135 



The softened stationer deposits another half-crown on the table. 
Nothing less than a repetition of that infallible remedy will relieve his 
feelings. 

" Wot I wos thinkin on, Mr. Sangsby," proceeds Jo, " wos, as you 
wos able to write wery large, p'raps ? " 

" Yes, Jo, please G-od," returns the stationer. 

" Uncommon, precious large, p'raps ? " says Jo, with eagerness. 

" Yes, my poor boy." 

Jo laughs with pleasure. " Wot I wos thinkin on then, Mr. Sangsby, 
wos, that wen I wos moved on as fur as ever I could go, and couldn't be 
moved no furder, whether you might be so good, p'raps, as to write out, 
wery large, so that any one could see it anywheres, as that I was wery 
truly hearty sorry that I done it, and that I never went fur to do it ; and 
that though I didn't know nothink at all, I knowd as Mr. Wood cot once 
cried over it, and was alius grieved over it, and that I hoped as he'd be 
able to forgive me in his mind. If the writin could be made to say it 
wery large, he might." 

" I shall say it, Jo ; very large." 

Jo laughs again. " Thankee, Mr. Sangsby. It's wery kind of you, 
eir, and it makes me more cumfbler nor I wos afore." 

The meek little stationer, with a broken and unfinished cough, slips 
down his fourth half-crown, — he has never been so close to a case requiring 
so many, — and is fain to depart. And Jo and he, upon this little earth, 
shall meet no more. No more. 

(Another scene. — Enter Mr. Woodcourt) 

" Well, Jo, what is the matter ? Don't be frightened." 

" I thought," says Jo, who has started, and is looking round, " I 
thought I was in Tom-All-alone's agin. An't there nobody here but you, 
Mr. Woodcot?" 

" Nobody." 

" And I an't took back to Tom-All-alone's, am I, sir ? " 

" No." 

Jo closes his eyes, muttering, " I am wery thankful. " 

After watching him closely a little while, Allan puts his mouth very 
near his ear, and says to him in a low, distinct voice : " Jo, did you ever 
know a prayer ? ; ' 

"Never knowd nothink, sir." 

" Not so much as one short prayer?" 

" No, sir. Nothing at all. Mr. Chadbands he wos a prayin wunst 



136 DEATn OF LITTLE JO. 



at Mr. Sangsby's, and I heerd him, but he sounded as if he wos a speakin 
to hisself, and not to me. He prayed a lot, but I couldn't make out 
nothink on it. Different times there wos other genlmen come down Tom- 
all- Alone's a prayin, but they all mostly sed as the t'other wuns prayed 
wrong, and all mostly sounded to be talkin to theirselves, or a passin 
blame on the t'others, and not a talkin to us. We never knowd nothink, 
/never knowd what it wos all about." 

It takes him a long time to say this ; and few but an experienced and 
attentive listener could hear, or, hearing, understand him. After a short 
relapse into sleep or stupor, he makes, of a sudden, a strong effort to get- 
out of bed. 

" Stay, Jo, stay ! What now ? " 

" It's time for me to go to that there berryin ground, sir," he re- 
turns, with a wild look. 

" Lie down, and tell me. What burying ground, Jo ?" 

" Where they laid him as wos wery good to me ; wery good to me- 
indeed, he wos. It's time for me to go down to that there berryin ground, 
sir, and ask to be put along with him. I wants to go there and be berried. 
He used fur to say to me, ' I am as poor as you to-day, Jo,' he ses. I 
wants to tell him that I am as poor as him now, and have come there to- 
be laid along with him." 

" By-and-by, Jo ; by-and-by." 

il Ah ! P'raps they wouldn't do it if I was to go myself. But will 
you promise to have me took there, sir, and laid along with him ?" 

" I will, indeed." 

" Thankee, sir ! Thankee, sir ! They'll have to get the key of the- 
gate afore they can take me in, for it's alius locked. And there's a step- 
there, as I used fur to clean with my broom. — It's turned wery dark, sir. 
Is there any light a comin ? " 

"It is coming fast, Jo." 

Fast. The cart is shaken all to pieces, and the rugged road is very 
near its end. 

" Jo, my poor fellow ! " 

" I hear, you sir, in the dark, but I'm a gropin — a gropin — let me 
catch hold of your hand." 

" Jo, can you say what I say ? " 

"I'll say anything as you say, sir, for I knows it's good." 

"Our Father." 

"Our Father! — yes, that's wery good, sir." 

"Which art in Heaven." 



UNITED IN DEATH. 



137 



"Art in Heaven!" — Is the light a comin', sir?" 

"It is close at hand. Hallowed be thy name." 

"Hallowed be — thy — name !" 

The light has come upon the benighted way. Dead. 

Dead, your Majesty. Dead, my Lords and Gentlemen. Dead, Eight 
Reverends and Wrong Reverends of every order. Dead, men and women, 
born with heavenly compassion in your hearts. And dying thus around 
us every day. 



THE FIRST SNOW-FALL. 



JAMES R. LOWELL. 




|JHE snow had begun in the gloaming, 
And busily all the night 
Had been heaping field and highway 
With a silence deep and white. 

Every pine and fir and hemlock 
Wore ermine too dear for an earl, 

And the poorest twig on the elm-tree 
Was ridged inch deep with pearl. 

From sheds new-roofed with Carrara 
Came Chanticleer's muffled crow, 

The stiff rails were softened to swan's down, 
And still fluttered down the snow. 

I etood and watched by the window 
The noiseless work of the sky, 

And the sudden flurries of snow-birds > 
Like brown leaves whirling by. 

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn 
Where a little headstone stood ; 

How the flakes were folding it gently, 
As did robins the babes in the wood. 



Up spoke our own little Mabel, . 

Saying, " Father, who makes it snow?** 
And I told of the good All-father 

Who cares for us here below. 

Again I looked at the snow-fall, 
And thought of the leaden sky 

That arched o'er our first great sorrow, 

When that mound was heaped so high. 

I remembered the gradual patience 

That fell from that cloud like snow, 

Flake by flake, healing and hiding 
The scar of our deep-plunged woe. 

And again to the child I whispered, 
" The snow that husheth all, 

Darling, the merciful Father 
Alone can make it fall !" 

Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her ; 

And she, kissing back, could not know 
That my kiss was given to her sister, 

Folded close under deepening snow. 



UNITED IN DEATH. 



MpHERE was no fierceness in the eyes of those men now, as they sat 
gUt^ face to face on the bank of the stream ; the strife and the anger 
Ir had all gone now, and they sat still, — dying men, who but a few 

J hours before had been deadly foes, sat still and looked at each 



138 UNITED IN DEATH. 



other. At last one of them spoke : " We haven't either of us a chance to 
hold on much longer, I judge." 

" No," said the other, with a little mixture of sadness and reckless- 
ness, " you did that last job of yours well, as that bears witness," and he 
pointed to a wound a little above the heart, from which the life blood was 
slowly oozing. 

" Not better than you did yours," answered the other, with a grim 
smile, and he pointed to a wound a little higher up, larger and more 
ragged, — a deadly one. And then the two men gazed upon each other 
again in the dim light ; for the moon had come over the hills now, and 
stood among the stars, like a pearl of great price. And as they looked a 
soft feeling stole over the heart of each toward his fallen foe, — a feeling of 
pity for the strong manly life laid low, — a feeling of regret for the in- 
exorable necessity of war which made each man the slayer of the other ; 
and at last one spoke : " There are some folks in the world that'll feel 
worse when you are gone out of it." 

A spasm of pain was on the bronzed, ghastly features. "Yes," said 
the man, in husky tones, " there's one woman with a boy and girl, away 
up among the New Hampshire mountains, that it will well-nigh kill to hear 
of this ; " and the man groaned out in bitter anguish, " God have pity on 
my wife and children ! " 

And the other drew closer to him : " And away down among the 
cotton fields of Georgia, there's a woman and a little girl whose hearts will 
break when they hear what this day has done ; " and then the cry wrung 
itself sharply out of his heart, ".0 God, have pity upon them ! " 

And from that moment the Northerner and the Southerner ceased to 
be foes. The thought of those distant homes on which the anguish was to 
fall, drew them closer together in that last hour, and the two men wept 
like little children. 

And at last the Northerner spoke, talking more to himself than to 
any one else, and he did not know that the other was listening greedily to 
every word : — 

" She used to come, — my little girl, bless her heart ! — every night to 
meet me when I came home from the fields ; and she would stand under 
the great plum-tree, that's just beyond the back-door at home, with the 
sunlight making yellow-brown in her golden curls, and the laugh dancing 
in her eyes when she heard the click of the gate, — I see her now, — and I'd 
take her in my arms, and she'd put up her little red lips for a kiss ; but 
my little darling will never watch under the plum-tree by the well, for her 
father, again. I shall never hear the cry of joy as she catches a glimpse 



GONE WITH A HANDSOMER MAN. 



139 



of me at the gate. I shall never see her little feet running over the grass 
to spring into my arms again ! " 

"And then," said the Southerner, " there's a little brown-eyed, 
brown-haired girl, that used to watch in the cool afternoons for her father, 
when he rode in from his visit to the plantations. I can see her sweet 
little face shining out now, from the roses that covered the pillars, and 
hear her shout of joy as I bounded from my horse, and chased the little 
flying feet up and down the verandah again." 

And the ^Northerner drew near to the Southerner, and spoke now in 
a husky whisper, for the eyes of the dying men were glazing fast : " We 
have fought here, like men, together. We are going before God in a little 
while. Let us forgive each other." 

The Southerner tried to speak, but the sound died away in a mur- 
mur from his white lips ; but he took the hand of his fallen foe, and his 
stiffening fingers closed over it, and his last look was a smile of forgive- 
ness and peace. When the next morning's sun walked up the gray stairs 
of the dawn, it looked down and saw the two foes lying dead, with their 
hands clasped in each other, by the stream which ran close to the battle- 
field. And the little girl with golden hair, that watched under the 
plum-tree among the hills of New Hampshire, and the little girl with 
bright brown hair, that waited by the roses among the green fields of 
Georgia, were fatherless. 



GONE WITH A HANDSOMER MAN 



WILL CARLETON. 



John. 



1 VE worked in the field all day, a plowin' 
the " stony streak ;" 
£3? I've scolded my team till I'm hoarse ; 
I've tramped till my legs are weak , 
J> I've choked a dozen swears, (so's not to 
tell Jane fibs,) 
When the plow-pint struck a stone, and the 
handles punched my ribs. 

I've put my team in the barn, and rubbed 

their sweaty coats ; 
I've fed 'em a heap of hay and half a bushel 

of oats ; 



And to see the way they eat makes me like 

eatin' feel, 
And Jane won't say to-night that I don't 

make out a meal. 

Well said ' the door is locked ! but here she's 
left the key, 

Under the step, in a place known only to her 
and me ; 

I wonder who's dyin' or dead, that she's hus- 
tled off pell-mell ; 

But here on the table's a note, and probably 
this will tell. 



140 



GONE WITH A HANDSOMER MAN. 



Good God ! my wife is gone ! my wife is gone 

astray ! 
The letter it says, " Good-bye, for I'm a going 

away ; 
I've lived with you six months, John, and so 

far I've been true ; 
But I'm going away to-day with a handsomer 

man than you." 

A han'somer man than me ! Why, that ain't 

much to say ; 
There's han'somer men than me go past here 

every day. 
There's handsomer men than me — I ain't of 

the han'some kind ; 
But a loverier man than I was, I guess she'll 

never find. 

Curse her ! curse her ! I say, and give my 

curses wings ! 
May the words of love I've spoken be changed 

to scorpion stings ! 
Oh, she filled my heart with joy, she emptied 

my heart of doubt, 
And now, with a scratch of a pen, she lets 

my heart's blood out ! 

Curse her ! curse her ! say I, she'll some time 

rue this day ; 
She'll some time learn that hate is a game 

that two can play ; 
And long before she dies she'll grieve she ever 

was born, 
And I'll plow her grave with hate, and seed 

it down to scorn. 

As sure as the world goes on, there'll come a 

time when she 
Will read the devilish heart of that han'somer 

man than me ; 
And there'll be a time when he will find, as 

others do, 
That she who is false to one, can be the same 

with two. 

And when her face grows pale, and when her 

eyes grow dim, 
And when he is tired of her and she is tired 

of him, 



She'll do what she ought to have done, and 

coolly count the cost ; 
And then she'll see things clear, and know 

what she has lost. 

And thoughts that are now asleep will wake 

up in her mind, 
And she will mourn and cry for what she has 

left behind ; 
And maybe she'll sometimes long for me — for 

me — but no ! 
I've blotted her out of my heart, and I will 

not have it so. 

And yet in her girlish heart there was some- 
thin' or other she had 

That fastened a man to her, and wasn't en- 
tirely bad ; 

And she loved me a little, I think, although 
it didn't last ; 

But I mustn't think of these things — I've 
buried 'em in the past. 

I'll take my hard words back, nor make a bad 

matter worse ; 
She'll have trouble enough ; she shall not 

have my curse ; 
But I'll live a life so square — and I well know 

that I can, — 
That she always will sorry be that she went 

with that han'somer man. 

Ah, here is her kitchen dress ! it makes my 

poor eyes blur ; 
It seems when I look at that, as if 'twas 

holdin' her. 
And here are her week-day shoes, and there 

is her week-day hat, 
And yonder's her weddin' gown ; I wonder 

she didn't take that. 

'Twas only this mornin' she came and called 
me her "dearest dear," 

And said I was makin' for her a regular pa- 
radise here ; 

God ! if you want a man to sense the paina 
of hell, 

Before you pitch him in just keep him in hea- 
ven a spell l 



DEDICATION OF - GETTYSBURG CEMETEEY. 



141 



Good-bye ! I wish that death had severed us 

two apart. 
You've lost a worshiper here, you've crushed 

a lovin' heart. 
I'll worship no woman again ; but I guess I'll 

learn to pray, 
And kneel as you used to kneel, before you 

run away. 

And if I thought I couM bring my words on 

Heaven to bear, 
And if I thought I had some little influence 

there, 
I would pray that I might be, if it only could 

be so, 
As- happy and gay as I was a half hour ago. 

Jane {entering). 

Why, John, what a litter here ! you've thrown 
things all around! 

Come, what's the matter now ? and what have 
you lost or found ? 

And here's my father here, a waiting for sup- 
per, too ; 

I've been a riding with him— he's that "hand- 
somer man than you." 

Ha! ha! Pa, take a seat, while I put the 

kettle on, 
And get things ready for tea, and kiss my 

dear old John. 
Why, John, you look so strange ! come, what 

has crossed your track ? 
I was only a joking, you know; I'm willing 

to take it back. 




'/ II 

John {aside). 
Well, now, if this aint a joke, with rather a 

bitter cream ! 
It seems as if I'd woke from a mighty ticklish 

dream ; 
And I think she " smells a rat," for she smiles 

at me so queer, 
I hope she don't ; good gracious ! I hope that 

they didn't hear ! 

'Twas one of her practical drives — she thought 
I'd understand ! 

But I'll never break sod again till I get the 
lay of the land. 

But one thing's settled with me — to appreci- 
ate heaven well, 

Tis good for a man to have some fifteen mi- 
nutes of hell. 



DEDICATION OF GETTYSBURG CEMETERY. 



PRESIDENT LINCOLN. 



m^ 



|i| OURSCORE and seven years ago our fathers brought forth upon 
111 this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to 
the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are en- 
gaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any 
nation, so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met 
on a great battle-field of that war. We are met to dedicate a por- 



142 



OVER THE RIVER. 



tion of it as the final resting-place of those who here gave their lives that 
that nation might live. 

It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But in a 
larger sense we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow 
this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have 
consecrated it far above our power to add or detract. The world will little 
note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what 
they did here. 

It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished 
work they have thus far so nobly carried on. It is rather for us to be here 
dedicated to the great task remaining before us, that from these honored 
dead we take increased devotion to the cause for which they gave the last 
full measure of devotion ; that we here highly resolve that these dead shall 
not have died in vain, that the nation shall, under God, have a new birth 
of freedom, and that the government of the people, by the people, and for 
the people, shall not perish from the earth. 



OVER THE RIVER. 



N. A. W. PRIEST. 



SipjijgVER the river they beckon to me, 
sJBM. Loved ones who crossed to the 
other side ; 
.5 The gleam of their snowy robes I see, 
\ But their voices are drowned by 
4» the rushing tide. 

There's one with ringlets of sunny gold, 
And eyes the reflection of heaven's own 
blue , 
He crossed in the twilight gray and cold, 

And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. 
We saw not the angels that met him there — 

The gate of the city we could not see ; 
Over the river, over the river, 

My brother stands, waiting to welcome me. 

Over the river the boatman pale 
Carried another, the household pet ; 

Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale — 
Darling Minnie ! I see her yet ! 

She closed on her bosom her dimpled hands, 
And fearlessly entered the phantom bark ; 



We watched it glide from the silver sands, 
And all our sunshine grew strangely dark. 

We know she is safe on the further side, 
Where all the ransomed and angels be ; 

Over the river, the mystic river, 

My childhood's idol is waiting for me. 

For none return from those quiet shores, 

Who cross with the boatman, cold and pale ; 
We hear the dip of the golden oars, 

And catch a glimpse of the snowy sail ; 
And lo ! they have passed from our yearning 
hearts — 

They cross the stream and are gone for aye. 
We may not sunder the vail apart 

That hides from our vision the gates of 
day; 
We only know that their barks no more 

Sail with us o'er life's stormy sea ; 
Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore, 

They watch, and beckon, and wait for 



DE PINT WID OLD PETE. 



143 



And I sit and think when the sunset's gold 
is flashing on river, and hill, and shore, 

I shall one day stand by the waters cold 
And list to the sound of the boatman's oar. 

I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail ; 
1 shall hear the boat as it gains the strand . 



I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale 
To the better shore of the spirit-land. 

I shall know the ioved who have gone before, 
And joyfully sweet will the meeting b9, 

When over the river, the peaceful river, 
The angel of death shall carry me. 




DE PINT WID OLD PETE. 



;PON the hurricane deck of one of our gunboats, an elderly darkey, 

sagp with a very philosophical and retrospective cast of countenance, 
<^p^i squatted on his bundle, toast- 

t ing his shins against the chim- 

J ney and apparently plunged into a 
state of profound meditation. Finding 
upon inquiry, that he belonged to the 
Ninth Illinois, one of the most gallantly 
behaved and heavy losing regiments at 
the Fort Donaldson battle, I began to 
interrogate him upon the subject. 

" Were you in the fight ? " 

"Had a little taste of it, sa." 

"Stood your ground, did you ?" 

" No, sa, I runs." 

" Kun at the first fire, did you ? " 

" Yes, sa, and would hab run soona, 
had I know'd it war comin'." 

"Why, that wasn't very creditable to your courage." 

"Massa, dat isn't my line, sa; cookin's my profeshun." 

" Well, but have you no regard for your re- 
putation ? " 

" Yah, yah ! reputation's nuffin to me by de 
side ob life." 

" Do you consider your life worth more than 
other people's ? " 

" It is worth more to me, sa." 

" Then you must value it very highly." 

" Yes, sa, I does ; more dan all dis world, more 
dan a million ob dollars, sa ; for what would dat 
be worth to a man wid de bref out of him? 
Self-preservation am de first law wid me." 




TOASTING HIS SHINS. 




NO, SA, I RUNS. 



144 



I SEE THEE STILL. 



" But why should you act upon a different rule from other men '(" 

11 Because different men set different values upon their lives ; mine is 
not in de market." 

" But if you lost it, you would have the satisfaction of knowing that 
you died for your country." 

" What satisfaction would dat he to me when de power ob feelin' was 
gone?" 

" Then patriotism and honor are nothing to you ? " 

" Nuffin whatever, sa; I regard them as among the vanities." 

" If our soldiers were like you, traitors might have broken up the 
government without resistance." 

" Yes, sa ; dar would hab been no help for it." 

" Do you think any of your company would have missed you if you 
had been killed?" 

" Maybe not, sa ; a dead white man ain't much to dese sogers, let 
Htane a dead nigga ; but I'd miss myself, and dat was de pint wid me." 



I SEE THEE STILL. 



CHARLES SPRAGUE. 



ROCK'D her in the cradle, 

And laid her in the tomb. She was the 

youngest. 
What fireside circle hath not felt the 

charm 

J Of that sweet tie ? The youngest ne'er 
grow old,. 
the fond endearments of our earlier days 
We keep alive in them, and when they die 
3)ur youthful joys we bury with them. 

I see thee still , 
Remembrance, faithful to her trust, 
Calls thee in beauty from the dust ; 
Thou comest in the morning light, 
Thou'rt with me through the gloomy night ; 
In dreams I meet thee as of old ; 
Then thy soft arms my neck enfold 
And thy sweet voice is in my ear : 
In every scene to memory dear, 

I see thee still. 



I see thee still; 
In every hallow'd token round ; 
This little ring thy finger bound, 
This lock of hair thy forehead shaded, 
This silken chain by thee was braided, 
These flowers, all wither'd now, like thee, 
Sweet Sister, thou didst cull for me ; 
This book was thine ; here didst thou read ; 
This picture — ah ! yes, here indeed 

I see thee still. 

I see thee still ; 
Here was thy summer noon's retreat, 
Here was thy favorite fireside seat ; 
This was thy chamber — here, each day, 
I sat and watch'd thy sad decay • 
Here, on this bed, thou last didst lie ; 
Here, on this pillow, — thou didst die. 
Dark hour ! once more its woes unfold: 
As then I saw thee, pale and cold, 

I see thee still. 



EXECUTION OF JOAN OF ARC. 



Ul 



I see thee still. 
Thou art not in the grave confined — 
Death cannot claim the immortal Mind 
Let Earth close o'er its sacred trust, 
JBut Goodness dies not in the dust ; 



Thee, my Sister ! 'tis not thee 
Beneath the coffin's lid I see ; 
Thou to a fairer land art gone ; 
There, let me hope, my journey done, 
To see thee still ! 



EXECUTION OF JOAN OF ARC. 




THOMAS DE QUINCEY. 



HAVING placed the king on his throne, it was her fortune thence- 
„Wm forward to be thwarted. More than one military plan was en- 
' > W* 2 tered upon which she did not approve. Too well she felt that the 
•Sr end was now at hand. Still, she continued to expose her person 
| in battle as before ; severe wounds had not taught her caution ; 
and at length she was made prisoner by the Burgundians, and 
finally given up to the English. The object now was to vitiate the coro- 
nation of Charles VII, as the work of a witch ; and, for this end, Joan was 
tried for sorcery. She resolutely defended herself from the absurd ac- 
cusation. 

Never, from the foundation of the earth, was there such a trial as 
this, if it were laid open in all its beauty of defence, and all its malignity 
of attack. 0, child of France, shepherdess, peasant girl ! trodden under 
foot by all around thee, how I honor thy flashing intellect, — quick as the 
lightning, and as true to its mark, — that ran before France and laggard 
Europe by many a century, confounding the malice of the ensnarer, and 
making dumb the oracles of falsehood ! " Would you examine me as a 
witness against myself?" was the question by which many times she 
defied their arts. The result of this trial was the condemnation of Joan to 
be burnt alive. Never did grim inquisitors doom to death a fairer victim 
by baser means. 

Woman, sister ! there are some things which you do not execute as 
well as your brother, man ; no, nor ever will. Yet, sister, woman ! cheer- 
fully, and with the love that burns in depths of admiration, I acknowledge 
that you can do one thing as well as the best of men, — you can die 
grandly! On the twentieth of May, 1431, being then about nineteen 
years of age, Joan of Arc underwent her martyrdom. She was conducted 
before mid-day, guarded by eight spearmen, to a platform of prodigious 
height, constructed of wooden billets, supported by occasional walls of lath 
10 



14-f THE CORAL INSECT. 



and plaster, and traversed by hollow spaces in every direction, for the 
creation of air-currents. 

With an undaunted soul, but a meek and saintly demeanor, the 
maiden encountered her terrible fate. Upon her head was placed a mitre, 
bearing the inscription, " Relapsed heretic, apostate, idolatress." Her piety 
displayed itself in the most touching manner to the last, and her angelic 
forgetfulness of self was manifest in a most remarkable degree. The 
executioner had been directed to apply his torch from below. He did so. 
The fiery smoke rose upwards in billowing volumes. A monk was then 
standing at Joan's side. Wrapt up in his sublime office, he saw not the 
danger, but still persisted in his prayers. Even then, when the last 
enemy was racing up the fiery stairs to seize her, even at that moment, 
did this noblest of girls think only for him, — the one friend that would 
not forsake her, — and not for herself; bidding him with her last breath to 
care for his own preservation, but to leave her to God. "Go down," she 
said ; " lift up the cross before me, that I may see it in dying, and speak 
to me pious words to the end." Then protesting her innocence, and 
recommending her soul to Heaven, she continued to pray as the flames 
leaped up and walled her in. Her last audible word was the name of 
Jesus. Sustained by faith in Him, in her last fight upon the scaffold, she 
had triumphed gloriously ; victoriously she had tasted death. 

Few spectators of this martyrdom were so hardened as to contain 
their tears. All the English, with the exception of a few soldiers who 
made a jest of the affair, were deeply moved. The French murmured that 
the death was cruel and unjust. " She dies a martyr ! " " Ah, we are 
lost, we have burned a saint ! " " Would to God that ray soul were with 
hers ! " Such were the exclamations on every side. A fanatic English 
soldier, who had sworn to throw a fagot on the funeral-pile, hearing Joan's 
last prayer to her Saviour, suddenly turned away, a penitent for life, say- 
ing everywhere that he had seen a dove, rising upon white wings to 
, heaven from the ashes where she stood. 



THE CORAL INSECT. 



MRS. SIGOURNEY. 



pOIL on ! toil on ! ye ephemeral train, 
■ Who build m the tossing and treach- 
f^gC^ erous mam ; 

Toil on — for the wisdom of man ye 



i 



With your sand-based structures and domes 

of rock ; 
Your columns the fathomless fountains lave, 
And your arches spring up to the crested 



mock, wave ; 



THE COKAL INSECT. 



147 



Ye're a puny race, thus to boldly rear 
A fabric so vast, in a realm so drear. 
Ye bind the deep with your secret zone, 
The ocean is seal'd, and the surge a stone ; 
Fresh wreaths from the coral pavement 

spring, 
Like the terraced pride of Assyria's king ; 

The turf looks green where the breakers 

roll'd ; 
O'er the whirlpool ripens the rind of gold ; 
The sea-snatch'd isle is the home of men. 



There's a poison-drop in man's purest cup ; 
There are foes that watch for his cradle 

breath ; 
And why need ye sow the floods with death ? 
With mouldering bones the deeps are white, 
From the ice-clad pole to the tropics 

bright ; 
The mermaid hath twisted her fingers cold 
With the mesh of the sea-boy's curls of 

gold, 
And the gods of ocean have frown'd to see 
The mariner's bed in their halls of glee ; 




CORAL REEF BUILDERS. 



And the mountains exult where the wave 
hath been. 

But why do ye plant 'neath the billows dark 
The wrecking reef for the gallant bark ? 
There are snares enough on the tented field, 
'Mid the blossom'd sweets that the valleys 

yield ; 
There are serpents to coil, ere the flowers are 

up; 



Hath earth no graves, that ye thus must 

spread 
The boundless sea for the thronging dead ? 

Ye build — ye build — but ye enter not in, 
Like the tribes whom the desert devour'd in 

their sin ; 
From the land of promise ye fade and die, 
Ere its verdure gleams forth on your weary 

eye; 



148 



THE COMING OF THANKSGIVING. 



As the kings of the cloud-crown'd pyra- 
mid, 
Their noteless bones in oblivion hid, 



Ye slumber unmark'd 'mid the* desolate main, 
While the wonder and prid& of your works 
remain. 



THE COMING OF THANKSGIVING. 



CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER. 




SNE of the best things in farming is gathering the chestnuts, hickory- 
nuts, butternuts, and even bush-nuts, in the late fall, after the 
frosts have cracked the husks, and the high winds have shaken 
them, and the colored leaves have strewn the ground. On a 
bright October day, when the air is full of golden sunshine, there 
is nothing quite so exhilarating as going nutting. Nor is the pleasure of 
it altogether destroyed for the boy by the consideration that he is making 
himself useful in obtaining supplies for the winter household. The getting- 
in of potatoes and corn is a different thing ; that is the prose, but nutting 
is the poetry of farm life. I am not sure but the boy would find it very 
irksome, though, if he were obliged to work at nut-gathering in order to 
procure food for the family. He is willing to make himself useful in his 
own way. The Italian boy, who works day after day at a huge pile of 
pine-cones, pounding and cracking them and taking out the long seeds, 
which are sold and eaten as we eat nuts (and which are almost as good as 
pumpkin-seeds, another favorite with Italians), probably does not see the 
fun of nutting. Indeed, if the farmer-boy here were set at pounding off 
the walnut-shucks and opening the prickly chestnut-burs, as a task, he 
would think himself an ill-used boy. What a hardship the prickles in his 
fingers would be ! But now he digs them out with his jack-knife, and 
enjoys the process on the whole. The boy is willing to do any amount of 
work if it is called play. 

In nutting, the squirrel is not more nimble and industrious than the 
boy. I like to see a crowd of boys swarm over a chestnut grove ; they 
leave a desert behind them like the seventeen years locusts. To climb a 
tree and shake it, to club it, to strip it of its fruit and pass to the next, is 
the sport of a brief time. I have seen a legion of boys scamper over our 
grass-plot under the chestnut-trees, each one as active as if he were a new 
patent picking-machine, sweeping the ground clean of nuts, and disappear 
over the hill before I could go to the door and speak to them about it. 
Indeed I have noticed that boys don't care much for conversation with 



THE COMING OF THANKSGIVING. 



149 



the owners of fruit-trees. They could speedily make their fortunes if they 
would work as rapidly in cotton-fields. I have never seen anything like 
it except a flock of turkeys busily employed removing grasshoppers from 
a piece of pasture. 




NUTTIKGk 



The New England hoy used to look forward to Thanksgiving as the 
great event of the year. He was apt to get stents set him, — so much corn 
to husk, for instance, before that day, so that he could have an extra play- 
spell ; and in order to gain a day or two, he would work at his task with 
the rapidity of half-a-dozen boys. He had the day after Thanksgiving 
always as a holiday, and this was the day he counted on. Thanksgiving 
itself was rather an awful festival, — very much like Sunday, except for 
the enormous dinner, which filled his imagination for months before as 
completely as it did his stomach for that day and a week after. There 
was an impression in the house that that dinner was the most important 
event since the landing from the Mayflower. Heliogabalus, who did not 
resemble a Pilgrim Father at all, but who had prepared for himself in his 



150 THE COMING OF THANKSGIVING. 

day some very sumptuous banquets in Rome, and ate a great deal of the 
best he could get (and liked peacocks stuffed with asafcetida, for on© 
thing), never had anything like a Thanksgiving dinner; for do you sup- 
pose that he, or Sardanapalus either, ever had twenty-four different 
kinds of pie at one dinner ? Therein many a New England boy is greater 
than the Roman emperor or the Assyrian king, and these were among the 
most luxurious eaters of their day and generation. But something more 
is necessary to make good men than plenty to eat, as Heliogabalus no 
doubt found when his head was cut off. Cutting off the head was a mode 
the people had of expressing disapproval of their conspicuous men. Nowa- 
days they elect them to a higher office, or give them a mission to some 
foreign country, if they do not do well where they are. 

For days and days before Thanksgiving the boy was kept at work 
evenings, pounding and paring and cutting up and mixing (not being 
allowed to taste much), until the world seemed to him to be made of 
fragrant spices, green fruit, raisins, and pastry, — a world that he was only 
yet allowed to enjoy through his nose. How filled the house was with the 
most delicious smells ! The mince-pies that were made ! If John had 
been shut up in solid walls with them piled about him, he couldn't have 
eaten his way out in four weeks. There were dainties enough cooked in 
those two weeks to have made the entire year luscious with good living, if 
they had been scattered along in it. But people were probably all the 
better for scrimping themselves a little in order to make this a great feast. 
And it was not by any means over in a day. There were weeks deep of 
chicken-pie and other pastry. The cold buttery was a cave of Aladdin, 
and it took a long time to excavate all its riches. 

Thanksgiving Day itself was a heavy day, the hilarity of it being so 
subdued by going to meeting, and the universal wearing of the Sunday 
clothes, that the boy couldn't see it. But if he felt little exhilaration, he 
ate a great deal. The next day was the real holiday. Then were the 
merry-making parties, and perhaps, the skatings and sleigh-rides, for the 
freezing weather came before the governor's proclamation in many parts 
of New England. The night after Thanksgiving occurred, perhaps, the 
first real party that the boy had ever attended, with live girls in it, 
dressed so bewitchingly. And there he heard those philandering songs, 
and played those sweet games of forfeits, which put him quite beside him- 
self, and kept him awake that night till the rooster crowed at the end of 
his first chicken-nap. What a new world did that party open to him ! 
I think it likely that he saw there, and probably did not dare say ten words 
to, some tall, graceful girl, much older than himself, who seemed to him 






THE PUZZLED DUTCHMAN. 



151 



like a new order of being. He could see her face just as plainly in the 
darkness of his chamber. He wondered if she noticed how awkward he 
was, and how short his trousers-legs were. He blushed as he thought of 
his rather ill-fitting shoes ; and determined, then and there, that he 
wouldn't be put off with a ribbon any longer, but would have a young 
man's necktie. It was somewhat painful thinking the party over, but it 
was delicious, too. He did not think, probably, that he would die for that 
tall, handsome girl ; he did not put it exactly in that way. But he rather 
resolved to live for her, — which might in the end amount to the same 
thing. At least he thought that nobody would live to speak twice dis- 
respectfully of her in his presence. 




THE PUZZLED DUTCHMAN. 



CHARLES F. ADAMS. 



'M a proken-hearted Deutscher, 

Vot's villed mit crief und shame. 
I dells you vot der drouple ish : 
I doosnt know my name. 

You dinks dis fery vunny, eh ? 

Ven you der schtory hear, 
You vill not vonder den so mooch, 

It vas so schtrange und queer. 



Mine moder had dwo leedle twins; 

Dey vas me und mine broder : 
Ve lookt so fery mooch alike, 

No von knew vich vrom toder. 

Von off der poys vas " Yawcob," 
Und " Hans " der oder's name : 

But den it made no tifferent ; 
Ve both got called der same. 



152 



ARTEMUS WARD AT THE TOMB OF SHAKSPEARE. 



Veil ! von off us got tead, — 


Und so I am in drouples : 


Yaw, Mynheer, dot ish so ! 


I gan't kit droo mine hed 


But vedder Hans or Yawcob, 


Vedder Tm Hans vot's lifing, 


Mine moder she don'd know. 


Or Yawcob- 'vot is tead/ 




ARTEMUS WARD AT THE TOMB OF SHAKSPEARE. 



CHARLES F. BROWNE. 



|'VE been lingerin by the Tomb of the lamentid Shakspeare. 
is-jl?d It is a success. 

I do not hes'tate to pronounce it as such. 

You may make any use of this opinion that you see fit. If you 
think its publication will subswerve the cause of litteratoor, you may 
publicate. 

I told my wife Betsey, when I left home, that I should go to the birth- 
f place of the orthur of Otheller and other Plays. She said that as long as I 
kept out of Newgate she didn't care where I went. " But," I said, " don't 
you know he was the greatest Poit that ever lived ? Not one of these 
common poits, like that young idyit who writes verses to our daughter,, 
about the Koses as groses, and the breezes as blowses — but a Boss poit — 
also a philosopher, also a man who knew a great deal about everything." 

Yes. I've been to Stratford onto the Avon, the Birth-place of 
Shakespeare. Mr. S. is now no more. He's been dead over three hun- 
dred (300) years. The peple of his native town are justly proud of him. 
They cherish his mem'ry, and them as sell picturs of his birth-place, &c, 



LAST HOURS OF WEBSTER. 153 

make it prof 'tible cherishin it. Almost everybody buys a pictur to put 
into their Albiom. 

" And this," I said, as I stood in the old church-yard at Stratford, 
beside a Tombstone, " this marks the spot where lies William W. Shakes- 
peare. Alars ! and this is the spot where — " 

" You've got the wrong grave," said a man, — a worthy villager; 
" Shakespeare is buried inside the church." 

" Oh," I said, " a boy told me this was it." The boy larfed and put 
the shillin I'd given him into his left eye in a inglorious manner, and com- . 
menced moving backwards towards the street. 

I pursood and captered him, and, after talking to him a spell in a 
sarkastic stile, I let him w 7 ent. 

William Shakespeare was born in Stratford in 1564. All the com- 
mentators, Shaksperian scholars, etsetry, are agreed on this, which is 
about the only thing they are agreed on in regard to him, except that his 
mantle hasn't fallen onto any poet or dramatist hard enough to hurt 
said poet or dramatist much. And there is no doubt if these commen- 
tators and persons continner investigatin Shakspeare's career, we shall not 
in doo time, know anything about it at all. When a mere lad little 
William attended the Grammar School, because, as he said, the Grammar 
School wouldn't attend him. This remarkable remark coming from one 
so young and inexperunced, set peple to thinkin there might be something 
in this lad. He subsequently wrote Hamlet and George Barnwell. When 
his kind teacher went to London to accept a position in the offices of the 
Metropolitan Kailway, little William was chosen by his fellow-pupils to 
deliver a farewell address. "Go on, sir," he said, "in a glorous career. 
Be like a eagle, and soar, and the soarer you get the more we shall be 
gratified! That's so." 



LAST HOURS OF WEBSTER. 



EDWARD EVERETT. 



||iKMONG the many memorable words which fell from the lips of our 
friend just before they were closed forever, the most remarkable 
are those which have been quoted by a previous speaker : "I still 
live." They attest the serene composure of his mind, the Chris- 
tian heroism with which he was able to turn his consciousness in 
upon himself, and explore, step by step, the dark passage, (dark to 




154 



PAT'S CRITICISM. 



us, but to him, we trust, already lighted from above), which connects this 
world with the world to come. But I know not what words could have 
been better chosen to express his relation to the world he was leaving, — 
" I still live." This poor dust is just returning to the dust from which it 
was taken, but I feel that I live in the affections of the people to whose 
services I have consecrated my days. " I still live." The icy hand of 
death is already laid on my heart, but I shall still live in those words of 
counsel which I have uttered to my fellow-citizens, and which I now leave 
them as the bequest of a dying friend. 

In the long and honored career of our lamented friend, there are 
efforts and triumphs which will hereafter fill one of the brightest pages of 
our history. But I greatly err if the closing scene, — the height of the 
religious sublime, — does not, in the judgment of other days, far transcend 
in interest the brightest exploits of public life. Within that darkened 
chamber at Marshfield was witnessed a scene of which we shall not readily 
find the parallel. The serenity with which he stood in the presence of the 
King of terrors, without trepidation or flutter, for hours and days of 
expectation ; the though tfulness for the public business when the sands of 
life were so nearly run out ; the hospitable care for the reception of the 
friends who came to Marshfield ; that affectionate and solemn leave sepa- 
rately taken, name by name, of wife, and children, and kindred, and 
family, — down to the humblest members of the household ; the designation 
of the coming day, then near at hand, when " all that was mortal of 
Daniel Webster should cease to exist ; " the dimly-recollected strains of 
the funeral poetry of Gray; the last faint flash of the soaring intellect; the 
feebly-murmured words of Holy Writ repeated from the lips of the good 
physician, who, when all the resources of human art had been exhausted, 
had a drop of spiritual balm for the parting soul ; the clasped hands ; the 
dying prayers. Oh ! my fellow-citizens, this is a consummation over 
which tears of pious sympathy will be shed ages after the glories of the 
forum and the senate are forgotten. 



PATS CRITICISM. 



CHAELES F. ADAMS. 




iHERE'S a story that's old, 
But good if twice told, 
Of a doctor of limited skill, 



Who cured beast and man 
On the "cold-water plan," 
Without the small help of a pill. 



PAT'S CRITICISM. 



165 



On his portal of pine 


When the doctor with pride 


Hung an elegant sign, 


Stepped up to his side, 


Depicting a beautiful rill, 


Saying, "Pat, how is that for a sign ' 


And a lake where a sprite, 
With apparent delight, 
Was sporting in sweet dishabille. 


" There's wan thing," says Pat, 
"You've lift out o' that, 
Which, be jabers ! is quoite a mistake- 




PAT, HOW IS THAT FOR A SIGN?' 



Pat McCarty one day, 
As he sauntered that way, 
Stood and gazed at that portal of pine 



It's trim and it's nate ; 
But, to make it complate, 
Ye shud have a foine burd on the lake. 



156 



THE LITTLE MATCH-GIRL. 



"Ah! indeed! pray then, tell, 
To make it look well, 
What bird do you think it may lack?" 



Says Pat, " Of the same 
I've forgotten the name, 
But the song that he sings is ' Quack ! quack 1' " 




THE LITTLE MATCH-GIRL. 



HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. 



^T was very cold, the snow fell, and it was almost quite dark; for it 
was evening — yes, the last evening of the year. Amid the cold and 
the darkness, a poor little girl, with bare head and naked feet, was 
roaming through the streets. It is true she had a pair of slippers 
when she left home, but they were not of much use. They were very 
large slippers ; so large, indeed, that they had hitherto been used by her 
mother; besides, the little creature lost them as she hurried across the 
street, to avoid two carriages that were driving very quickly past. One 
of the slippers was not to be found, and the other was pounced upon by a 
boy, who ran away with it, saying that it would serve for a cradle when 
he should have children of his own. So the little girl went along, with 
her little bare feet that were red and blue with cold. She carried a 
number of matches in an old apron, and she held a bundle of them in her 
hand. Nobody had bought anything from her the whole livelong day ; 
nobody had even given her a penny. 

Shivering with cold and hunger, she crept along, a perfect picture of 
misery — poor little thing ! The snow-flakes covered her long, flaxen hair, 
which hung in pretty curls round her throat ; but she heeded them not 
now. Lights were streaming from all the windows, and there was a 
savory smell of roast goose ; for it was New Year's Eve. And this she 
did heed. 



THE LITTLE MATCH-GIRL. 157 

She now sat down,, cowering in a corner formed by two houses, one 
of which projected beyond the other. She had drawn her little feet under 
her, but she felt colder than ever ; yet she dared not return home, for she 
had not sold a match, and could not bring home a penny ! She would 
certainly be beaten by her father; and it was cold enough at home, 
besides — for they had only the roof above them, and the wind came 
howling through it, though the largest holes had been stopped with 
straw and rags. Her littl® hands were nearly frozen with cold. Alas ! a 
single match might do her some good, if she might only draw one out of 
the bundle, and rub it against the wall, and warm her fingers. 

So at last she drew one out. Ah ! how it sheds sparks, and how it 
burns ! It gave out a warm, bright flame, like a little candle, as she held 
her hands over it,— truly it was a wonderful little sight ! It really 
seemed to the little girl as if she were sitting before a large iron stove, 
with polished brass feet, and brass shovel and tongs. The fire burned so 
brightly, and warmed so nicely, that the little creature stretched out 
her feet to warm them likewise, when lo ! the flame expired, the stove 
vanished, and left nothing but the little half-burned match in her hand. 

She rubbed another match against the wall. It gave a light, and 
where it shone upon the wall, the latter became as transparent as a veil, 
and she could see into the room. A snow-white table-cloth was spread 
upon the table, on which stood a splendid china dinner-service, while a 
roast goose stuffed with apples and prunes, sent forth the most savory 
fumes. And what was more delightful still to see, the goose jumped 
down from the dish, and waddled along the ground with a knife and fork 
in its breast, up to the poor girl. The match then want out, and nothing 
remained but the thick, damp wall. 

She lit yet another match. She now sat under the most magnificent 
Christmas tree, that was larger, and more superbly decked, than even the 
one she had seen through the glass door at the rich merchant's. A 
thousand tapers burned on its green branches, and gay pictures, such as 
one sees on shields, seemed to be looking down upon her. She stretched 
out her hands, but the match then went out. The Christmas lights kept 
rising higher and higher. They now looked like stars in the sky. One of 
them fell down, and left a long streak of fire. " Somebody is now dying/' 
thought the little girl, — for her old grandmother, the only person who had 
ever loved her, and who was now dead, had told her, that, when a star 
falls, it is a sign that a soul is going up to heaven. 

She again rubbed a match upon the wall, and it was again light all 
round; and in the brightness stood her old grandmother, clear and shining 



158 



THE RAVEN. 



like a spirit, yet looking so mild and loving. '" Grandmother/' cried the 
little one, "oh, take me with you ! I know you will go away when the 
match goes out, — you will vanish like the warm stove, and the delicious 
roast goose, and the fine, large Christmas-tree ! " And she made haste to 
rub the whole bundle of matches, for she wished to hold her grandmother 
fast. And the matches gave a light that was brighter than noonday. 
Her grandmother had never appeared so beautiful nor so large. She took 
the little girl in her arms, and both flew upwards, all radiant and joyful, 
far, far above mortal ken, where there was neither cold, nor hunger, nor 
care to be found ; where there was no rain, no snow, or stormy wind, but 
calm, sunny days the whole year round. 

But, in the cold dawn, the poor girl might be seen leaning against 
the wall, with red cheeks and smiling mouth ; she had been frozen on the 
last night of the old year. The new year's sun shone upon the little dead 
girl. She sat still holding the matches, one bundle of which was burned. 
People said : " She tried to warm herself." Nobody dreamed of the fine 
things she had seen, nor in what splendor she had entered, along with her 
grandmother, upon the joys of the New Year. 



THE RA YEN. 



EDGAR A. POE. 



^j^j^NCE upon a midnight dreary, while I 
MMM pondered, weak and weary, 

Over many a quaint and curious 
volume of forgotten lore, — 
i» While I nodded, nearly napping, 
suddenly there came a tapping, 
As of some one gently rapping, rap- 
ping at my chamber-door. 
" 'Tis some visitor," I mutter'd, " tapping at 
my chamber-door — 

Only this, and nothing more." 

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak 

December, 
And each separate dying ember wrought its 

ghost upon the floor. 
Eagerly I wished the morrow ; vainly I had 

sought to borrow 



From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow 

for the lost Lenore, — 
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the 

angels name Lenore, — 

Nameless here forevermore. 

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each 

purple curtain, -* 

Thrilled me, — filled me with fantastic terrors 

never felt before ; 
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, 

I stood repeating, 
" 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my 

chamber-door, — 
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my 

chamber-door ; 

That it is, and nothing more." 



THE RAVEN. 



159 



Presently my soul grew stronger : hesitating 
then no longer, 

" Sir," said I, " or Madam, truly your for- 
giveness I implore ; 

But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently 
you came rapping, 

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at 
my chamber-door, 

That I scarce was sure I heard you " — here I 
opened wide thf door : 
Darkness there, and nothing more. 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood 
there, wondering, fearing, 

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever 
dared to dream before ; 

But the silence was unbroken, and the still- 
ness gave no token, 

And the only word there spoken was the 
whispered word, " Lenore !" 

This I whispered, and an echo murmured 
back the word, " Lenoee !" 
Merely this, and nothing more. 

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul 

within me burning, 
Soon again I heard a tapping, something 

louder than before. 
" Surely," said I, " surely that is something 

at my window -lattice ; 
Let me see then what thereat is and this 

mystery explore, — 
Let my heart be still a moment, and this 

mystery explore ; — 

'Tis the wind, and nothing more." 

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with 

many a flirt and flutter, 
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly 

days of yore. 
Not the least obeisance made he ; not a 

minute stopped or stayed he ; 
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above 

my chamber-door, — 
Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my 

chamber-door — 

Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy 
into smiling, 



By the grave and stern decorum of the coun- 
tenance it wore, 

" Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, 
thou," I said, " art sure no craven ; 

Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering 
from the nightly shore, 

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the 
night's Plutonian shore ?" 
Quoth the raven, " Nevermore!" 

Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear 
discourse so plainly, 

Though its answer little meaning, little rele- 
vancy bore ; 

For we cannot help agreeing that no living 
human being 

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above 
his chamber-door, 

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above 
his chamber- door 
With such name as " Nevermore !" 

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid 
bust, spoke only 

That one word, as if his soul in that one word 
he did outpour. 

Nothing further then he uttered ; not a feath- 
er then he fluttered — 

Till I scarcely more than muttered, " Other 
friends have flown before, 

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes 
have flown before. 
Then the bird said, "Nevermore!" 

Startled at the stillness, broken by reply so 

aptly spoken, 
" Doubtless," said I, " what it utters is its 

only stock and store, 
Caught from some unhappy master, whom 

unmerciful disaster 
Follow' d fast and follow' d faster, till his songs 

one burden bore, 
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy 

burden bore," 

Of — ' Never — nevermore !' " 

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul 

into smiling, 
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front 

of bird and bust and door, 



160 



THE FIRE-FIEND. 



Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook my- 
self to linking 

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this omi- 
nous bird of yore — 

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, 
and ominous bird of yore 
Meant in croaking " Nevermore !" 

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no sylla- 
ble expressing 

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned in- 
to my bosom's core ; 

This and more I sat divining, with my head 
at ease reclining 

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp- 
light gloated o'er, 

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp- 
light gloating o'er 
She shall press — ah ! nevermore ! 

Then methought the air grew denser, per- 
fumed from an unseen censer 

Swung by seraphim, whose foot-falls tinkled 
on the tufted floor, 

" Wretch," I cried, " thy God hath lent thee, 
— by these angels he hath sent thee 

Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy mem- 
ories of Lenore ! 

Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and for- 
get this lost Lenore !" 
Quoth the raven, " Nevermore !" 

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! — prophet 

still, if bird or devil ! 
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest 

tossed thee here ashore, 
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert 

land enchanted — 
On this home by horror haunted — tell me 

truly, I implore, — 



Is there — is there balm in Gilead ? — tell me 
— tell me, I implore ! 
Quoth the raven, " Nevermore !" 

" Prophet !" said I, " thing of evil ! — prophet 
still, if bird or devil ! 

By that heaven that bends above us, by that 
God we both adore, 

Tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if within 
the distant Aidenn, 

It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the an- 
gels name Lenore ; 

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the 
angels name Lenore !" 
Quoth the raven, " Nevermore !" 

" Be that word our sign of parting, bird or 
fiend !" I shrieked, upstarting, — 

" Get thee back into the tempest and the 
night's Plutonian shore. 

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie 
thy soul hath spoken ! 

Leave my loneliness unbroken! — quit the 
bust above my door ! 

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take 
thy form from off my door !" 
Quoth the raven, " Nevermore !" 

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, 
still is sitting 

On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my 
chamber-door ; 

And his eyes have all the seeming of a de- 
mon's that is dreaming, 

And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws 
his shadow on the floor; 

And my soul from out that shadow that lies 
floating on the floor 
Shall be lifted — nevermore ! 



THE FIRE-FIEND. 



C. D. GARDETTE. 



SN the deepest dearth of Midnight, while 
the sad and solemn swell 
Still was floating, faintly echoed from 

the Forest Chapel Bell — 
Fainting, falteringly floating o' er the 
sable waves of air 



That were through the Midnight rolling, 
chafed and billowy with the tolling — 

In my chamber I lay dreaming by the fire- 
light's fitful gleaming, 

And my dreams were dreams foreshadowed 
on a heart fore-doomed to Care I 



THE FIRE-FIEND. 



161 



As the last long lingering echo of the Mid- 
night's mystic chime- 
Lifting through the sable billows to the 

Thither Shore of Time — 
Leaving on the starless silence not a token 

nor a trace — 
In a quivering sigh departed ; from my 

couch in fear I started : 
Started to my feet in terror, for my Dream's 

phantasmal Error 
Painted in the fitful fire, a frightful, fiend- 
ish, flaming face ! 

On the red hearth's reddest centre, from a 

blazing knot of oak, 
Seemed to gibe and grin this Phantom when 

in terr jr I awoke, 
And my slumberous eyelids straining as I 

staggered to the floor, 
Still in that dread Vision seemir/g, turned my 

gaze toward the gleaming 
Hearth, and — there ! — oh, God ! I saw It ! 

and from out Its flaming jaw It 
Spat a ceaseless, seething, hissing, bubbling, 

gurgling stream of gore ! 

Speechless ; struck with stony silence ; fro- 
zen to the floor I stood, 

Till methought my brain was hissing with 
that hissing, bubbling blood : — 

Till I felt my life-stream oozing, oozing from 
those lambent lips : — 

Till the Demon seemed to name me : — then 
a wondrous calm o'ercame me, 

And my brow grew cold and dewy, with a 
death-damp stiff and gluey, 

And I fell back on my pillow in apparent 
soul-eclipse ! 

Then, as in Death's seeming shadow, in the 
icy Pall of Fear 

I lay stricken, came a hoarse and hideous 
murmur to my ear : — 

Came a murmur like the murmur of assas- 
sins in their sleep : — 

Muttering, " Higher ! higher ! higher ! I am 
Demon of the Fire ! 

I am Arch-Fiend of the Fire! and each 
blazing roof's my pyre, 

And my sweetest incense is the blood and 
tears my victims weep ! 
11 



How I revel on the Prairie ! How I roar 

among the Pines ! 
How I laugh when from the village o'er the 

snow the red flame shines, 
And I hear the shrieks of terror, with a Life 

in every breath ! 
How I scream with lambent laughter as I 

hurl each crackling rafter 
Down the fell abyss of Fire, until higher ! 

higher ! higher ! 
Leap the High-Priests of my Altar in their 

merry Dance of Death ! 

" I am Monarch of the Fire ! I am Vassal- 
King of Death ! 

World-encircling, with the shadow of its 
Doom upon my breath ! 

With the symbol of Hereafter flaming from 
my fatal face ! 

I command the Eternal Fire ! Higher ! 
higher ! higher ! higher ! 

Leap my ministering Demons, like Phantas- 
magoric lemans 

Hugging Universal Nature in their hideous 
embrace !" 

Then a sombre silence shut me in a solemn, 
shrouded sleep, 

And I slumbered, like an infant in the " Cra- 
dle of the Deep," 

Till the Belfry in the Forest quivered with 
the matin stroke, 

And the martins, from the edges of its lichen- 
lidded ledges, 

Shimmered through the russet arches where 
the Light in torn files marches, 

Like a routed army struggling through the 
serried ranks of cak. 

Through my ivy-fretted casement filtered in 
a tremulous note 

From the tall and stately linden where a Ro- 
bin swelled his throat : — 

Querulous, quaker-crested Robin, calling 
quaintly for his mate ! 

Then I started up, unbidden, from my slum- 
ber Nightmare ridden, 

With the memory of that Dire Demon in my 
central Fire, 

On my eye's interior mirror like the shadow 
of a Fate ! 



162 



RETRIBUTION. 



Ah ! the fiendish Fire had smouldered to a 

white and formless heap, 
And no knot of oak was naming as it flamed 

upon my sleep ; 
But around its very centre, where the Demon 

Face had shone, 



Forked Shadows seemed to linger, pointing 
as with spectral finger 

To a Bible, massive, golden, on a table carv- 
ed and olden — 

And I bowed, and said, "All Power is of 
God, of God alone !" 




RETRIBUTION. 



A. LINCOLN. 



^L^ 9 

rrjpHE Almighty has His own purposes. 



Woe unto the world because 
of offences ! for it must needs be that offences come ; but woe to 
that man by whom the offence cometh." If we shall suppose that 
American slavery is one of those offences which, in the providence 
of God, must needs come, but which, having continued through 
His appointed time, He now wills to remove, and that He gives to 



JENKINS QOES TO A PICNIC. 163 

both North and South this terrible war, as the woe due to those by whom 
the offence came, shall we discern therein any departure from those divine 
attributes which the believers in a living God always ascribe to Him ! 
Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, that this mighty scourge of 
war may speedily pass away. Yet, if God wills that it continue until 
all the wealth piled by the bondman's two hundred and fifty years of 
unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with 
the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three 
thousand years ago, so still it must be said, " The judgments of the Lord 
are true and righteous altogether." 

With malice toward none ; with charity for all ; with firmness in the 
right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work 
we are in ; to bind up the nation's wounds ; to care for him who shall 
have borne the battle, and for his widow, and his orphan — to do all which 
may achieve and cherish a just and a lasting peace among ourselves, and 
with all nations. 



JENKINS GOES TO A PICNIC. 



>i =^ -- "•?■ 







.-^-~- 1 



ARIA ANN recently determined to go to a picnic. 

Maria Ann is my wife — unfortunately she had planned it to* 
go alone, so far as I am concerned, on that picnic excursion ;. 
but when I heard about it, I determined to assist. 
She pretended she was very glad ; I don't believe she was. 
" It will do you good to get away from your work a day, poor fellow," 
she said ; " and we shall so much enjoy a cool morning ride on the cars, and 
a dinner in the woods." 

On the morning of that day, Maria Ann got up at five o'clock. About 
three minutes later she disturbed my slumbers, and told me to come to 
breakfast. I told her I wasn't hungry, but it didn't make a bit of differ- 
ence, 1 had to get up. The sun was up ; I had no idea that the sun began 
business so early in the morning, but there he was. 

" Now," said Maria Ann, " we must fly around, for the cars start at 
half-past six. Eat all the breakfast you can, for you won't get anything 
more before noon." 

I could not eat anything so early in the morning. There was ice to 
be pounded to go around the pail of ice-cream, and the sandwiches to be 
cut, and I thought I would never get the legs of the chicken fixed so that 
I could get the cover on the big basket. Maria Ann flew around and 



164 JENKINS GOES TO A PICNIC. 

piled up groceries for me to pack, giving directions to the girl about 
taking care of the house, and putting on her dress all at once. There is a 
deal of energy in that woman, perhaps a trifle too much. 

At twenty minutes past six I stood on the front steps, with a basket 
on one arm and Maria Ann's waterproof on the other, and a pail in each 
hand, and a bottle of vinegar in my coat-skirt pocket. There was a camp- 
chair hung on me somewhere, too, but I forget just where. 

" Now," said Maria Ann, " we must run or we shall not catch the 
train." 

" Maria Ann," said I, "that is a reasonable idea. How do you 
suppose I can run with all this freight ? " 

" You must, you brute. You always try to tease me. If you don't 
want a scene on the street, you will start, too/' 

So I ran. 

I had one comfort, at least. Maria Ann fell down and broke her para- 
sol. She called me a brute again because I laughed. She drove me all 
the way to the depot at a brisk trot, and we got on the cars ; but neither 
of us could get a seat, and I could not find a place where I could set the 
things down, so I stood there and held them. 

" Maria," I said, " how is this for a cool morning ride ? " 

Said she, " You are a brute, Jenkins." 

Said I, " You have made that observation before, my love." 

I kept my courage up, yet I knew there would be an hour of wrath 
when we got home. While we were getting out of the cars, the bottle in 
my coat-pocket broke, and consequently I had one boot half-full of vinegar 
all day. That kept me pretty quiet, and Maria Ann ran off with a big 
whiskered music-teacher, and lost her fan, and got her feet wet, and 
tore her dress, and enjoyed herself so much, after the fashion of picnic 
goers. 

I thought it would never come dinner-time, and Maria Ann called me 
a pig because I wanted to open our basket before the rest of the baskets 
were opened. 

At last dinner came — the "nice dinner in the woods," you know. 
Over three thousand little red ants had got into our dinner, and they 
were worse to pick out than fish-bones. The ice-cream had melted, and 
there was no vinegar for the cold meat, except what was in my boot, and 
of course that was of no immediate use. The music-teacher spilled a 
cup of hot coffee on Maria Ann's head, and pulled all the frizzles out 
trying to wipe off the coffee with his handkerchief. Then I sat on a piece 
of raspberry-pie, and spoiled my white pants, and concluded I didn't want 



THE LITTLE CONQUEROR. 



165 



anything more. I had to stand up against a tree the rest of the after- 
noon. The day offered considerable variety, compared to every-day life, 
but there were so many drawbacks that I did not enjoy it so much as I 
might have done. 




THE LITTLE CONQUEROR. 



jIUpWAS midnight ; not a sound was heard ; 
Within the — " Papa ! won't 'ou 'ook 




CHARLES F. ADAMS. 



An' see my pooty 'ittle house ? 
I wis' 'ou wouldn't wead 'ou book "- 

Within the palace, where the king 
Upon his couch in anguish lay " — 
'Papa ! Pa-pa / I wis' 'ou'd turn 
An' have a 'ittle tonty play — " 



No gentle hand was there to bring 

The cooling draft, or bathe his brow ; 
His courtiers, and his pages gone" — 
" Turn, papa, turn ; I want 'ou now — 

Down goes the book with needless force, 
And, with expression far from mild, 

With sullen air, and clouded brow, 
I seat myself beside the child. 



166 



PLEDGE WITH WINE. 



Her little, trusting eyes of blue 

With mute surprise gaze in my face, 

As if, in its expression, stern, 

Reproof, and censure, she could trace ; 

Anon her little bosom heaves, 
Her rosy lip begins to curl ; 



And, with a quiv'ring chin, she sobs; 
" Papa don't 'uv his 'ittle dirl !" 

King, palace, book — all are forgot ; 

My arms are 'round my darling thrown- 
The thunder cloud has burst, and, lo ! 

Tears fall and mingle with her own. 



PLEDGE WITH WINE. 



**|||||jLEDG-E with wine — pledge with wine!" cried the young and 
thoughtless Harry Wood. " Pledge with wine," ran through the 
brilliant crowd. 

The beautiful bride grew pale — the decisive hour had come, 

— she pressed her white hands together, and the leaves of her bridal 
wreath trembled on her pure brow; her breath came quicker, her 
heart beat wilder. From her childhood she had been most solemnly 
opposed to the use of all wines and liquors. 

" Yes, Marion, lay aside your scruples for this once," said the Judge, 
in a low tone, going towards his daughter, " the company expect it, do not 
so seriously infringe upon the rules of etiquette ; — in your own house act 
as you please ; but in mine, for this once please me." 

Every eye was turned towards the bridal pair. Marion's principles 
were well known. Henry had been a convivialist, but of late his friends 
noticed the change in his manners, the difference in his habits — and to- 
night they watched him to see, as they sneeringly said, if he was tied down 
to a woman's opinion so soon. 

Pouring a brimming beaker, they held it with tempting smiles towards 
Marion. She was very pale, though more composed, and her hand shook 
not, as smiling back, she gratefully accepted the crystal tempter and raised 
it to her lips. But scarcely had she done so, when every hand was arrested 
by her piercing exclamation of " Oh, how terrible ! " " What is it? " cried 
one and all, thronging together, for she had slowly carried the glass at 
arm's length, and was fixedly regarding it as though it were some hideous 
object. 

" Wait," she answered, while an inspired light shone from her dark 
eyes, " wait and I will tell you. I see," she added, slowly pointing one 
jewelled finger at the sparkling ruby liquid, " a sight that beggars all de- 
scription ; and yet listen ; I will paint it for you if I can : It is a lonely 



PLEDGE WITH WINE. 167 



spot ; tall mountains, crowned with verdure, rise in awful sublimity around ; 
a river runs through, and bright flowers grow to the water's edge. There 
is a thick, warm mist that the sun seeks vainly to pierce ; trees, lofty and 
beautiful, wave to the airy motion of the birds ; but there, a group of 
Indians gather; they flit to and fro with something like sorrow upon their 
dark brow; and in their midst lies a manly form, but his cheek, how 
deathly; his eye wild with the fitful fire of fever. One friend stands beside 
him, nay, I should say kneels, for he is pillowing that poor head upon his 
breast. 

" Genius in ruins. Oh ! the high, holy-looking brow ! Why should 
death mark it, and he so young ? Look how he throws the damp curls ! see 
him clasp his hands ! hear his thrilling shrieks for life ! mark how he 
clutches at the form of his companion, imploring to be saved. Oh ! hear 
him call piteously his father's name ; see him twine his fingers together as 
he shrieks for his sister — his only sister — the twin of his soul — weeping for 
him in his distant native land. 

"See! " she exclaimed, while the bridal party shrank back, the un- 
tasted wine trembling in their faltering grasp, and the Judge fell, over- 
powered, upon his seat ; " see ! his arms are lifted to heaven ; he prays, 
how' wildly, for mercy ! hot fever rushes through his veins. The friend 
beside him is weeping ; awe-stricken, the dark men move silently, and 
leave the living and dying together." 

There was a hush in that princely parlor, broken only by what seemed 
a smothered sob, from some manly bosom. The bride stood yet upright, 
with quivering lip, and tears stealing to the outward edge of her lashes. 
Her beautiful arm had lost its tension, and the glass, with its little troubled 
red waves, came slowly towards the range of her vision. She spoke again ; 
every lip was mute. Her voice was low, faint, yet awfully distinct : she 
still fixed her sorrowful glance upon the wine-cup. 

"It is evening now ; the great white moon is coming up, and her 
beams lay gently on his forehead. He moves not ; his eyes are set in their 
sockets ; dim are their piercing glances ; in vain his friend whispers the 
name of father and sister — death is there. Death ! and no soft hand, no 
gentle voice to bless and soothe him. His head sinks back ! one convulsive 
shudder ! he is dead ! " 

A groan ran through the assembly, so vivid was her description, so 
unearthly her look, so inspired her manner, that what she described seemed 
actually to have taken place then and there. They noticed also, that the 
bridegroom hid his face in his hands and was weeping. 

11 Dead! " she repeated again, her lips quivering faster and faster, and 



168 PAPA'S LETTER. 



her voice more and more broken : " and there they scoop him a grave ; and 
there without a shroud, they lay him down in the damp reeking earth. 
The only son of a proud father, the only idolized brother of a fond sister. 
And he sleeps to-day in that distant country, with no stone to mark the 
spot. There he lies — my father's son — my own twin brother ! a victim to 
this deadly poison." " Father," she exclaimed, turning suddenly, while the 
tears rained down her beautiful cheeks, " father, shall I drink it now ? " 

The form of the old Judge was convulsed with agony. He raised his 
head, but in a smothered voice he faltered — " No, no, my child, in God's 
name no." 

She lifted the glittering goblet, and letting it suddenly fall to the floor 
it was dashed into a thousand pieces. Many a tearful eye watched her 
movements, and instantaneously every wine-glass was transferred to the 
marble table on which it had been prepared. Then, as she looked at the 
fragments of crystal, she turned to the company, saying : — "Let no friend, 
hereafter, who loves me, tempt me to peril my soul for wine. Not firmer 
the everlasting hills than my resolve, God helping me, never to touch or 
taste that terrible poison. And he to whom I have given my hand ; who 
watched over my brother's dying form in that last solemn hour, and buried 
the dear wanderer there by the river in that land of gold, will, I trust, 
sustain me in that resolve. Will you not, my husband ? '' 

His glistening eyes, his sad, sweet smile was her answer. 

The Judge left the room, and when an hour later he returned, and 
with a more subdued manner took part in the entertainment of the bridal 
guests, no one could fail to read that he, too, had determined to dash the 
enemy at once and forever from his princely rooms. 

Those who were present at that wedding, can never forget the impres- 
sion so solemnly made. Many from that hour forswore the social glass. 



PAPA'S LETTER. 



■ WAS sitting in my study, 



Writing letters, when I heard, 

" Please, dear mamma, Mary told me 

Mamma mustn't be 'isturbed. 

" But I'se tired of the kitty, 
Want some ozzer fing to do. 

Witing letters, is 'ou, mamma? 
Tan't I wite a letter too?" 



" Not now, darling, mamma's busy; 

Run and play with kitty, now." 
" No, no, mamma ; me wite letter, 

Tan if 'ou will show me how." 

I would paint my darling's portrait 

As his sweet eyes searched my face- 
Hair of gold and eyes of azure, 
Form of childish, witching grace. 



i\ Hai 

\\ F 

\ 



SEWING ON A BUTTON. 



169 



But the eager face was clouded, 


Mamma sent me for a letter, 


As I slowly shook my head, 


Does 'ou fink 'at I tan go ?" 


Till I said, " I'll make a letter 




Of you, darling boy, instead." 


But the clerk in wonder answered, 




" Not to-day, my little man," 


So I parted back the tresses 


" Den I'll find anozzer office, 


From his forehead high and white, 


'Cause I must do if I tan." 


And a stamp m sport I pasted 




'Mid its waves of golden light. 


• Fain the clerk would have detained him, 




But the pleading face was gone, 


Then I said, " Now, little letter, 


And the little feet were hastening — 


Go away and bear good news." 


By the busy crowd swept on. 


And I smiled as down the staircase 




Clattered loud the little shoes. 


Suddenly the crowd was parted, 




People fled to left and right, 


Leaving me, the darling hurried 


As a pair of maddened horses 


Down to Mary in his glee, 


At the moment dashed in sight. 


41 Mamma's witing lots of letters ; 




I'se a letter, Mary — see !" 


No one saw the baby figure — 




No one saw the golden hair, 


No one heard the little prattler, 


Till a voice of frightened sweetness 


As once more he climbed the stair, 


Rang out on the autumn air. 


Reached his little cap and tippet, 




Standing on the entry stair. 


'Twas too late — a moment only 




Stood the beauteous vision there, 


No one heard the front door open, 


Then the little face lay lifeless, 


No one saw the' golden hair, 


Covered o'er with golden hair. 


As it floated o'er his shoulders 




In the crisp October air. 


Reverently they raised my darling, 




Brushed away the curls of gold, 


Down the street the baby hastened 


Saw the stamp upon the forehead, 


Till he reached the office door. 


Growing now so icy cold. 


" I'se a letter Mr. Postman ; 




Is there room for any more ? 


Not a mark the face disfigured, 




Showing where a hoof had trod ; 


" 'Cause dis letter's doin' to papa, 


But the little life was ended — 


Papa lives with God, 'ou know, 


" Papa's letter" was with God. 



SEWING ON A B UTTON 



J. M. BAILEY. 



}T is bad enough to see a bachelor sew on a button, but he is the 
embodiment of grace alongside of a married man. Necessity has 
compelled experience in the case of the former, but the latter has 
always depended upon some one else for this service, and fortunately, 
for the sake of society, it is rarely he is obliged to resort to the needle 
himself. Sometimes the patient wife scalds her right hand, or runs a 



170 LIFE FR0M DEATH. 



sliver under the nail of the index finger of that hand, and it is then the 
man clutches the needle around the neck, and forgetting to tie a knot in 
the thread commences to put on the button. It is always in the morning, 
and from five to twenty minutes after he is expected to be down street. 
He lays the button exactly on the site of its predecessor, and pushes the 
needle through one eye, and carefully draws the thread after, leaving 
about three inches of it sticking up for leeway. He says to himself,- 1 — 
" Well, if women don't have the easiest time I ever see." Then he comes 
back the other way, and gets the needle through the cloth well enough, 
and lays himself out to find the eye, but in spite of a great deal of patient 
jabbing, the needle point persists in bucking against the solid parts of 
that button, and finally, when he loses patience, his fingers catch the 
thread, and that three inches he had left to hold the button slips through 
the eye in a twinkling, and the button rolls leisurely across the floor. 
He picks it up without a single remark, out of respect to his children, 
and makes another attempt to fasten it. This time when coming back 
with the needle he keeps both the thread and button from slipping by 
covering them with his thumb, and it is out of regard for that part of 
him that he feels around for the eye in a very careful and judicious 
manner ; but eventually losing his philosophy as the search becomes more 
and more hopeless, he falls to jabbing about in a loose and savage manner, 
and it is just then the needle finds the opening, and comes up through 
the button and part way through his thumb with a celerity that no 
human ingenuity can guard against. Then he lays down the things, with 
a few familiar quotations, and presses the injured hand between his knees, 
and then holds it under the other arm, and finally jams it into his mouth, 
and all the while he prances about the floor, and calls upon heaven and 
earth to witness that there has never been anything like it since the 
world was created, and howls, and whistles, and moans, and sobs. After 
awhile, he calms down, and puts on his pants, and fastens them together 
with a stick, and goes to his business a changed man. 



LIFE FROM DEATH. 




HOBATIUS BONAR. 



|HE star is not extinguished when it sets 
| Upon the dull horizon ; it but goes 
To shine in other skies, then reappear 
In ours, as fresh as when it first 



The river is not lost, when, o'er the rock, 
It pours its flood into the abyss below ; 

Its scattered force re- gathering from the 
shock, 
It hastens onward with yet fuller flow. 



BETTY AND THE BEAR. 



171 



The bright sun dies not, when the shading 
orb 

Of the eclipsing moon obscures its ray ; 
It still is shining on ; and soon to us 

Will burst undimmed into the joy of day. 

The lily dies not, when both flower and leaf 
Fade, and are strewed upon the chill, sad 
ground ; 
Gone down for shelter to its mother-earth, 
'Twill rise, re-bloom, and shed its fragrance 
round. 

The dew-drop dies not, when it leaves the 
flower, 

And passes upward on the beam of morn ; 
It does but hide itself in light on high, 

To its loved flower at twilight, to return. 



The fine gold has not perished, when the 
flame 
Seizes upon it with consuming glow ; 
In freshened splendor it comes forth anew, 
To sparkle on the monarch's throne or 
brow. 

Thus in the quiet joy of kindly trust, 
We bid each parting saint a brief fare- 
well; 

Weeping, yet smiling, we commit their dust 
To the safe keeping of the silent cell. 

The day of re-appearing ! how it speeds ! 

He who is true and faithful speaks the 
word. 
Then shall we ever be with those we love — 

Then shall we be forever with the Lord. 



BETTY AND THE BEAR. 



j)N a pioneer's cabin out West, so they say, 
A great big black grizzly trotted one 
m day, 

And seated himself on the hearth, and 

began 
To lap the contents of a two-gallon 
pan 




Of milk and potatoes, — an excellent meal, — 
And then looked about to see what he coul'd 
steal. 



The lord of the mansion awoke from his sleep, 
And, hearing a racket, he ventured to peep 
Just out in the kitchen, to see what was there, 
And was scared to behold a great grizzly 
bear. 

So he screamed in alarm to his slumbering 

frow, 
" Thar's a bar in the kitching as big's a cow !" 
" A what ?" " Why a bar !" " Well, murdet 

him, then !" 
" Yes, Betty, I will, if you'll first venture in." 
So Betty leaped up, and the poker she seized, 
While her man shut the door, and against it 

he squeezed. 

As Betty then laid on the grizzly her blows, 
Now on his forehead, and now on his nose, 
Her man through the key-hole kept shouting 

within, 
" Well done, my brave Betty, now hit him 

agm, 
Now a rap on the ribs, now a knock on the 

snout, 
Now poke with the poker, and poke his eyes 

out." 
So, with rapping and poking, poor Betty, 

alone. 
At last laid Sir Bruin as dead as a stone. 



172 



THE FREEDOM OF THE PRESS. 



m ^JM^&S3i. 




Now when the old man saw the bear was no 

more, 
He ventured to poke his nose out of the 

door, 
And there was the grizzly, stretched on the 

floor. 
Then off to the neighbors he hastened, to 

tell 
All the wonderful things that that morning 

befell ; 
And he published the marvellous story 

afar, 
How "me and my Betty jist slaughtered a 

bar! 
yes, come and see, all the neighbors hev 

sid it, 
Come see what we did, me and Betty, we 

did it." 



THE FREEDOM OF THE PRESS. 




JOHN MILTON. 



JOEDS and Commons of England ! consider what nation it is whereof 
ye are, and whereof ye are the governors; a nation not slow and 
dull, but of a quick, ingenious, and piercing spirit ; acute to invent, 
subtile and sinewy to discourse, not beneath the reach of any 
point that human capacity can soar to. 

Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation rousing 
herself like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks ; 
methinks I see her as an eagle mewing- her mighty youth, and kindling 
her undazzled eyes at the full mid-day beam ; purging and unsealing her 
long-abused sight at the fountain itself of heavenly radiance ; while the 
whole noise of timorous and flocking birds, with those also that love the 
twilight, flutter about, amazed at what she means. 

Though all the winds of doctrine were let loose to play upon the 
earth, so Truth be in the field, we do injuriously, by licensing and pro- 
hibiting, to misdoubt her strength. Let her and falsehood grapple ; 
whoever knew Truth put to the worse in a free and open encounter? 
Her confuting is the best and surest suppressing. He who hears what 
praying there is for light and clear knowledge to be sent down among us, 
would think of other matters to be constituted beyond the discipline of 



AULD ROBIN GRAY. 



173 



Geneva, framed ,and fabricked already to our hands. Yet when the new 
light which we beg for shines in upon us, there be who envy and oppose, 
if it come not first in at their casements. What a collusion is this, when as 
we are exhorted by the wise men to use diligence, "to seek for wisdom as 
for hidden treasures," early and late, that another order shall enjoin us to 
know nothing but by statute! When a man hath been laboring the 
hardest labor in the deep mines of knowledge, hath furnished out his 
findings in all their equipage, drawn forth his reasons, as it were a battle 
ranged, scattered and defeated all objections in his way, calls out his 
adversary into the plain, offers him the advantage of wind and sun, if he 
please, only that he may try the matter by dint of argument; for his 
opponents then to skulk, to lay ambushments, to keep a narrow bridge of 
licensing where the challenger should pass, though it be valor enough in 
soldiership, is but weakness and cowardice in the wars of Truth. For 
who knows not that Truth is strong, next to the Almighty? She needs 
no policies, nor stratagems, nor licensings, to make her victorious; those 
are the shifts and the defences that error uses against her power ; give her 
but room, and do not bind her when she sleeps. 



A ULD ROBIN GRA Y 



ANNE BARNARD. 



Lady Anne Barnard, daughter of the Earl of Balcarres, was born in 1750. Robin Gray chanced to 
be the name of a shepherd at Balcarres. While she was writing this ballad, a little sister looked in on 
her. " What more shall I do," Anne asked, " to trouble a poor girl ? I've sent her Jamie to sea, broken 
her father's arm, made her mother ill, and given her an old man for a lover. There's room in the four 
lines for one sorrow more. What shall it be?" "Steal the cow, sister Anne." Accordingly the cow 
was stolen. 

The second part, it is said, was written to please her mother, who often asked " how that unlucky 
business of Jeanie and Jamie ended." 




FIKST PART. 



HEN the sheep are in the fauld, 
when the kye's a' at hame, 
Ma And a' the weary warld to rest are 
gane, 
The woes o' my heart fa' in showers 

frae my e'e, 
Unkent by my gudeman, wha sleeps 
sound by me. 

'Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me 
for his bride, 



But saving a crown he had naething else 

beside ; 
To mak the crown a pound my Jamie gaed 

to sea, 
And the crown and the pound — they were 

baith for me. 

He hadna been gane a twelvemonth and a 

day 
When my father brake his arm, and the cow 

was stown away ; 



174 



AULD ROBIN GRAY. 



My mother she fell sick — my Jamie was at 

sea — 
And auld Robm Gray came a-courting me. 

My father couldna w^ork, my mother couldna 

spin, 
I toiled day and night, but their bread I 

couldna win ; 
Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' 

tears in his e'e, 
Said, " Jeanie, for their sakes, will ye no 

marry me? " 

My heart it said na, and I looked for Jamie 

back, 
But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a 

wrack ; 
His ship was a wrack — why didna Jamie 

dee? 
Or why am I spared to cry, Wae is me ? 

My father urged me sair — my mother didna 



But she lookit in my face till my heart was 

like to break ; 
They gied him my hand — my heart was in 

the sea — 
And so Robin Gray he was gudeman to me. 

I hadna been his wife a week but only four, 
When, mournfu' as I sat on the stane at my 

door, 
I saw my Jamie's ghaist, for I couldna think 

it he, 
Till he said, " I'm come hame, love, to marry 

thee." 

Oh ! sair, sair did we greet, and mickle say 

o' a', 
I gied him ae kiss and bade him gang awa'. 
I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to 

dee, 
For tho' my heart is broken, I'm young — 

wae's me ! 

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin, 
I darena think on Jamie, for that would be a 

sin, 
But I'll do my best a gude wife to be, 
For oh ! Robin Gray he is kind to me. 



SECOND PART. 

The winter was come, 'twas simmer nae 

mair, 
And, trembling, the leaves were fleeing thro' 

th' air : 
" winter," says Jeanie, " we kindly agree, 
For the sun he looks wae when he shines 

upon me." 

Nae longer she mourned, her tears were a' 
spent, 

Despair it was come, and she thought it con- 
tent — 

She thought it content, but her cheek it grew 
pale, 

And she bent like a lily broke down by the 
gale. 

Her father was vexed and her mother was 

wae, 
But pensive and silent was auld Robin Gray; 
He wandered his lane, and his face it grew 

lean, 
Like the side of a brae where the torrent has 

been. 

He took to his bed — nae physic he sought, 
But ordered his friends all around to be 

brought ; 
While Jeanie supported his head in its place, 
Her tears trickled down, and they fell on his 

face. 

" Oh, greet nae mair, Jeanie," said he wi' a 

groan, 
" I'm no worth your sorrow — the truth maun 

be known ; 
Send round for your neighbors, my hour it 

draws near, 
And I've that to tell that it's fit a' should 

hear. 

" I lo'ed and I courted her mony a day, 
The auld folks were for me, but still she said 

nay; 
I kentna o' Jamie, nor yet of her vow, 
In mercy forgive me — 'twas I stole the cow. 

" I cared not for Crummie, I thought but o' 

thee — 
I thought it was Crummie stood 'twixt you 

and me ; 



POETRY AND MYSTERY OF THE SEA. 



175 



While she fed your parents, oh, did you not 

say 
You never would marry wi' auld Robin 

Gray? 

" But sickness at hame and want at the door, 
You gied me your hand, while your heart it 

was sore ; 
I saw it was sore, — why took I her hand? 
Oh, that was a deed to my shame o'er the 

land! 

" How truth soon or late comes to open day- 

light! 
For Jamie cam' back, and your cheek it grew 

white — 
White, white grew your cheek, but aye true 

unto me — 
Ay, Jeanie, I'm thankfu' — I'm thankfu' to 

dee. 

" Is Jamie come here yet ? " — and Jamie they 

saw — 
" I've injured you sair, lad, so leave you 

my a' ; J 



Be kind to my Jeanie, and soon may it be ; 
Waste nae time, my dauties, in mourning for 
me." 

They kissed his cauld hands, and a smile o'er 

his face 
Seemed hopefu' of being accepted by grace ; 
" Oh, doubtna," said Jamie, " forgi'en he will 

be— 
Wha wouldna be tempted, my love, to win 

thee ? " 
* * * * * 

The first days were dowie while time slipt 

awa', 
But saddest and sairest to Jeanie o' a' 
Was thinkin' she couldna be honest and 

right, 
Wi' tears in her e'e while her heart was sae 

light. 

But nae guile had she, and her sorrow away, 
The wife o' her Jamie, the tear couldna stay ; 
A bonnie wee bairn — the auld folks by the 

'fire — 
Oh, now she has a' that her heart can desire. 



POETRY AND MYSTERY OF THE SEA. 



DR. GREENWOOD, 




^HE sea is his, and He made it," cries the Psalmist of Israel, in one 
of those bursts of enthusiasm in which he so often expresses the 
whole of a vast subject by a few simple words. Whose else, in- 
deed, could it be, and by whom else could it have been made ? 
Who else can heave its tides and appoint its bounds ? Who else can 
J urge its mighty waves to madness with the breath and wings of 
the tempest, and then speak to it again in a master's accents and 
bid it be still ? Who else could have peopled it with its countless inhabi- 
tants, and caused it to bring forth its various productions, and filled it 
from its deepest bed to its expanded surface, filled it from its centre to its 
remotest shores, filled it to the brim with beauty and mystery and power ? 
Majestic Ocean! Glorious Sea! 
thee. 



No created being rules thee or made 



178 



POETRY AND MYSTERY OF THE SEA. 



What is there more sublime than the trackless, desert, all-surrounding, 
unfathomable sea ? What is there more peacefully sublime than the calm ; 
gently -heaving, silent sea ? What is there more terribly sublime than the 
angry, dashing, foaming sea? Power — resistless, overwhelming power — 
is its attribute and its expression, whether in the careless, conscious 




" THE GENTLY-HEAVING SEA." 

grandeur of its deep rest, or the- wild tumult of its excited wrath. It is 
awful when its crested waves rise up to make a compact with the black 
clouds and the howling winds, and the thunder and the thunderbolt, and 
they sweep on, in the joy of their dread alliance, to do the Almighty's 
bidding. And it is awful, too, when it stretches its broad level out to 
meet in quiet union the bended sky, and show in the line of meeting the 
vast rotundity of the world. There is majesty in its wide expanse, sepa- 
rating and enclosing the great continents of the earth, occupying two- 
thirds of the whole surface of the globe, penetrating the land with its bays 
and secondary seas, and receiving the constantly-pouring tribute of every 
river, of every shore. There is majesty in its fulness, never diminishing 
and never increasing. There is majesty in its integrity, — for its whole 
vast substance is uniform in its local unity, for there is but one ocean, and 
the inhabitants of any one maritime spot may visit the inhabitants of any 
other in the wide world. Its depth is sublime : who can sound it ? Its 



POETRY AND MYSTERY OF THE SEA. 177 

strength is sublime : what fabric of man can resist it ? Its voice is sub- 
lime, whether in the prolonged song of its ripple or the stern music of its 
roar, — whether it utters its hollow and melancholy tones within a labyrinth 
of wave-worn caves, or thunders at the base of some huge promontory, or 
beats against a toiling vessel's sides, lulling the voyager to rest with the 
strains of its wild monotony, or dies away, in the calm and fading twilight, 
in gentle murmurs on some sheltered shore. 

The sea possesses beauty, : in richness, of its own ; it borrows it from 
earth, and air, and heaven. The clouds lend it the various dyes of their 
wardrobe, and throw down upon it the broad masses of their shadows as 
they go sailing and sweeping by. The rainbow laves in it its many-colored 
feet. The sun loves to visit it, and the moon and the glittering brother- 
hood of planets and stars, for they delight themselves in its beauty. The 
sunbeams return from it in showers of diamonds and glances of fire; the 
moonbeams find in it a pathway of silver, where they dance to and fro, 
with the breezes and the waves, through the livelong night. It has a 
light, too, of its own, — a soft and sparkling light, rivaling the stars ; and 
often does the ship which cuts its surface leave streaming behind a Milky 
Way of dim and uncertain lustre, like that which is shining dimly above- 
It harmonizes in its forms and sounds both with the night and the day. It 
cheerfully reflects the light, and it unites solemnly with the darkness. It 
imparts sweetness to the music of men, and grandeur to the thunder of 
heaven. What landscape is so beautiful as one upon the borders of the 
sea ? The spirit of its loveliness is from the waters where it dwells and 
rests, singing its spells and scattering its charms on all the coasts. What 
rocks and cliffs are so glorious as those which are washed by the chafing 
sea ? What groves and fields and dwellings are so enchanting as those 
which stand by the reflecting sea ? 

There is mystery in the sea. There is mystery in its depths. It is 
unfathomed, and, perhaps, unfathomable. Who can tell, who shall know, 
how near its pits run down to the central core of the world ? Who can 
tell what wells, what fountains, are there, to which the fountains of the 
earth are but drops ? Who shall say whence the ocean derives those in- 
exhaustible supplies of salt which so impregnate its waters that all the 
rivers of the earth, pouring into it from the time of the creation, have not 
been able to freshen them ? What undescribed monsters, what unimagi- 
nable shapes, may be roving in the profoundest places of the sea, never 
seeking — and perhaps never able to seek — the upper waters and expose 
themselves to the gaze of man ! What glittering riches, what heaps of 
gold, what stores of gems, there must be scattered in lavish profusion in 

12 



178 



POETRY AND MYSTERY OF THE SEA. 



the ocean's lowest bed ! What spoils from all climates, what works of art 
from all lands, have been engulfed by the insatiable and reckless waves ! 
Who shall go down to examine and reclaim this uncounted and idle wealth ? 
Who bears the keys of the deep ? 

And oh ! yet more affecting to the heart and mysterious to the 
mind, what companies of human beings are locked up in that wide, welter- 
ing, unsearchable grave of the sea ! Where are the bodies of those lost 
ones over whom the melancholy waves alone have been chanting requiem ? 




CLIFFS BY THE SEA. 



What shrouds were wrapped round the. limbs of beauty, and of manhood, 
and of placid infancy, when they were laid on the dark floor of that secret 
tomb ? Where are the bones, the relics, of the brave and the timid, the 
good and the bad, the parent, the child, the wife, the husband, the brother, 
the sister, the lover, which have been tossed and scattered and buried by 
the washing, wasting, wandering sea ? The journeying winds may sigh as 
year after year they pass over their beds. The solitary rain-cloud may 
weep in darknesss over the mingled remains which lie strewed in that un- 
wonted cemetery. But who shall tell the bereaved to what spot their 
affections may cling ? And where shall human tears be shed throughout 



MY COUNTRY. 



179 



that solemn sepulchre ? It is mystery all. When shall it be resolved ? 
Who shall find it out ? Who but He to whom the wildest waves listen 
reverently, and to whom all nature bows ; He who shall one day speak, and 
be heard in ocean's profoundest caves ; to whom the deep, even the lowest 
deep, shall give up its dead ; when the sun shall sicken, and the earth and 
the isles shall languish, and the heavens be rolled together like a scroll, 
and there shall be no more sea ! 



A FIRST SORROW. 



ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTOR. 



fSpGpJRISE ! this day shall shine 

''Qf$£i Forevermore, 

*|2 r^sf To thee a star divine 

On Time's dark shore. 



T 



Till now thy soul has been 
All glad and gay ; 

Bid it awake, and look 
At grief to-day ! 

No shade has come between 

Thee and the sun ; 
Like some long childish dream 

Thy life has run : 

But now the stream has reached 

A dark, deep sea, 
And Sorrow, dim and crowned 

Is waiting thee. 

Each of God's soldiers bears 
A sword divine : 



Stretch out thy trembling hands 
To-day for thine ! 

To each anointed priest 
God's summons came : 

O Soul, he speaks to-day, 
And calls thy name. 

Then, with slow, reverent step, 

And beating heart, 
From out thy joyous days 

Thou must depart, 

And, leaving all behind, 

Come forth alone, 
To join the chosen band 

Around the throne. 

Raise up thine eyes — be strong, 

Nor cast away 
The crown that God has given 

Thy soul to-day ! 



MY COUNTRY. 




JAMES MONTGOMERY. 



HERE is a land, of every land the 
pride, 

2SI5] Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world 
beside, 
Where brighter suns dispense serener 
light, _ 

And milder moons imparadise the night ; 
A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth, 
Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth: 



The wandering mariner, whose eye explores 
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting 

shores, 
Views not a realm so bountiful and fair, 
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air. 
In every clime, the magnet of his soul, 
Touched by remembrance, trembles to that 

pole ; 
For in this land of Heaven's peculiar race 



180 



INDUSTRY THE ONLY TRUE SOURCE OF WEALTH. 



The heritage of nature's noblest grace, 
There is a spot of earth supremely blest, 
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest, 
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside 
His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride, 
While in his softened looks benignly blend 
The sire, the son, the husband, brother, 

friend. 
Here woman reigns ; the mother, daughter, 

wife, 
Strew with fresh flowers the narrow way of 

life : 
In the clear heaven of her delightful eye, 
An angel-guard of love and graces lie ; 
Around her knees domestic duties meet. 



And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet. 
" Where shall that land, that spot of earth 

be found ? " 
Art thou a man ? — a patriot ? — look around ; 
0, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps 

roam, 
That land thy country, and that spot thy 

home ! 

Man, through all ages of revolving time, 
Unchanging man, in every varying clime 
Deems his own land of every land the pride, 
Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside; 
His home the spot of earth supremely blest, 
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest. 



INDUSTRY THE ONLY TRUE SOURCE OF WEALTH. 



DR. GEORGE BERKELEY. 



)M)USTKY is the natural sure way to success; this is so true, that it 
is impossible an industrious free people should want the necessaries 
and comforts of life, or an idle enjoy them under any form of govern- 
ment. Money is so far useful to the public, as it promoteth industry, 
and credit having the same effect, is of the same value with money; but 
money or credit circulating through a nation from hand to hand, without 
producing labor and industry in the inhabitants, is direct gaming. 

It is not impossible for cunning men to make such plausible schemes, 
as may draw those who are less skilful into their own and the public ruin. 
But surely there is no man of sense and honesty but must see and own, 
whether he understands the game or not, that it is an evident folly for 
any people, instead of prosecuting the old honest methods of industry and 
frugality, to sit down to a public gaming-table and play off their money 
one to another. 

The more methods there are in a state for acquiring riches without 
industry or merit, the less there will be of either in that state : this is as 
evident as the ruin that attends it. Besides, when money is shifted from 
hand to hand in such a blind fortuitous manner, that some men shall from 
nothing acquire in an instant va^t estates, without the least desert; while 
others are as suddenly stripped oi plentiful fortunes, and left on the parish 
by their own avarice and credulity, what can be hoped for on the one 




A TYPE OF GRANDEUR, STRENGTH AND MAJESTY. 



A LION'S HEAD." 



181 



hand but abandoned luxury and wantonness, or on the other but extreme 
madness and despair! 

In short, all projects for growing rich by sudden and extraordinary 
methods, as they operate violently on the passions of men, and encourage 
them to despise the slow moderate gains that are to be made by an honest 
industry, must be ruinous to the public, and even the winners themselves 
will at length be involved in the public ruin. . . . 

God grant the time be not near when men shall say, " This island was 
once inhabited by a religious, brave, sincere people, of plain, uncorrupt 
manners, respecting inbred worth rather than titles and appearances, 
assertors of liberty, lovers of their country, jealous of their own rights, 
and unwilling to infringe the rights of others ; improvers of learning and 
useful arts, enemies to luxury, tender of other men's lives, and prodigal of 
their own ; inferior in nothing to the old Greeks or Eomans, and superior 
to each of those people in the perfections of the other. Such were our 
ancestors during their rise and greatness ; but they degenerated, grew 
servile flatterers of men in power, adopted Epicurean notions, became 
venal, corrupt, injurious, which drew upon them the hatred of God and 
man, and occasioned their final ruin." 



a lion's head: 1 




G. WEATHERLY. 



PON the wall it hung where all might 
see : 
A living picture — so the people 
said — 
A type of grandeur, strength and 
majesty — 

" A lion's head." 



Yet, if you gazed awhile, you seemed to see 
The eyes grow strangely sad, that should 
have raged ; 
And, lo ! your thoughts took shape uncon- 
sciously — 

" A lion caged." 

You saw the living type behind his bars, 
His eyes so sad with mute reproach, but 
still 
A very King, as when beneath the stars 
He roved at will. 



And then your thoughts took further ground, 
and ran 
From real to ideal, till at length 
The lion caged seemed but the type of man 
In his best strength ; 

Man grand, majestic in both word and deed, 

A giant in both intellect and will, 
Yet trammeled by some force he can but heed 
And cannot still ; 

Man in his highest attributes, but bound 
By chains of circumstance around him cast, 

Yet nobly living out life's daily round, 
Till work be past. 

So musing, shadows fall all silently 

And swift recall the thoughts that wan- 
dering fled : 

The dream has ended, and you can but see 
"A lion's head." 



182 



THE PURITANS. 



LOVE LIGHTENS LABOR. 




C«p^ GOOD wife rose from her bed one 
morn, 
And thought with a nervous 
dread 
Of the piles of clothes to be 
washed, and more 
Than a dozen mouths to be fed. 
There's the meals to get for the men in the 

field, 
And the children to fix away 
To school, and the milk to be skimmed and 
churned ; 
And all to be done this day. 

It had rained in the night, and all the wood 

Was wet as it could be ; 
There were puddings and pies to bake, be- 
sides 

A loaf of cake for tea. 
And the day was hot, and her aching head 

Throbbed wearily as she said, 
" If maidens but knew what good wives know, 

They would not be in haste to wed ! " 



do 



you 



think I told Ben 



'■ Jennie, what 
Brown?" 

Called the farmer from the well ; 
And a flush crept up to his bronzed brow, 

And his eyes half bashfully fell ; 



" It was this," he said, and coming near 

He smiled, and stooping down, 
Kissed her cheek — "'twas this: that you 
were the best 

And the dearest wife in town ! " 

The farmer went back to the field, and the 
wife 
In a smiling, absent way 
Sang snatches of tender little songs 

She'd not sung for many a day. 
And the pain in her head was gone, and the 
clothes 
Were white as the foam of the sea ; 
Her bread was light, and her butter was 
sweet 
And as golden as it could be. 

" Just think," the children all cried in a 
breath, 

" Tom Wood has run off to sea ! 
He wouldn't, I know, if he'd only had 

As happy a home as we." 
The night came down, and the good wife 
smiled 

To herself, as she softly said: 
" Tis so sweet to labor for those we love, — 

It's not strange that maids will wed! " 



THE PURITANS. 



T. B. MACAULAY. 




HE Puritans were men whose minds had derived a peculiar character 



from the daily contemplation of superior beings and eternal inter- 
ests. Not content with acknowledging, in general terms, an 
overruling Providence, they habitually ascribed every event to 
1 the will of the Great Being for whose power nothing was too 
J vast, for whose inspection nothing was too minute. To know 
him, to serve him, to enjoy him was with them the great end of existence. 
They rejected with contempt the ceremonious homage which other sects 



THE PURITANS. 183 



substituted for the pure worship of the soul. Instead of catching 
occasional glimpses of the Deity through an obscuring veil, they aspired 
to gaze full on his intolerable brightness, and to commune with him face 
to face. Hence originated their contempt for terrestrial distinctions. The 
difference between the greatest and the meanest of mankind seemed to 
vanish, when compared with the boundless interval which separated the 
whole race from him on whom their own eyes were constantly fixed. 
They recognized no title to superiority but his favor; and, confident of 
that favor, they despised all the accomplishments and all the dignities of 
the world. If they were unacquainted with the works of philosophers 
and poets, they were deeply read in the oracles of God. If their names 
were not found in the registers of heralds, they were recorded in the 
Book of Life. If their steps were not accompanied by a splendid train 
of menials, legions of ministering angels had charge of them. 

Their palaces were houses not made with hands ; their diadems 
crowns of glory which should never fade away. On the rich and the 
eloquent, on nobles and priests, they looked down with contempt : for 
they esteemed themselves rich in a more precious treasure, and eloquent 
in a more sublime language — nobles by the right of an earlier creation, 
and priests by the imposition of a mightier hand. The very meanest of 
them was a being to whose fate a mysterious and terrible importance 
belonged, on whose slightest action the spirits of light and darkness 
looked with anxious interest, who had been destined, before heaven and 
earth were created, to enjoy a felicity which should continue when heaven 
and earth should have passed away. Events which short-sighted poli- 
ticians ascribed to earthly causes, had been ordained on his account. For 
his sake empires had risen, and flourished, and decayed. For his sake 
the Almighty had proclaimed his will by the pen of the evangelist and the 
harp of the prophet. He had been wrested by no common deliverer from 
the grasp of no common foe. He had been ransomed by the sweat of no 
vulgar agony, by the blood of no earthly sacrifice. It was for him that the 
sun had been darkened, that the rocks had been rent, that the dead had 
risen, that all nature had shuddered at the sufferings of her expiring Grod. 

Thus the Puritan was made up of two different men, — the one all 
self-abasement, penitence, gratitude, passion ; the other proud, calm, in- 
flexible, sagacious. He prostrated himself in the dust before his Maker ; 
but he set his foot on the neck of his king. In his devotional retirement 
he prayed with convulsions and groans and tears. He was half-maddened 
by glorious or terrible illusions. He heard the lyres of angels or the 
tempting whispers of fiends. He caught a gleam of the Beatific Vision, 



184 



THE BELL OF "THE ATLANTIC. 



or woke screaming from dreams of fire. Like Vane, he thought himself 
entrusted with the sceptre of the millennial year. Like Fleetwood, he 
cried in the bitterness of his soul that God had hid his face from him. 
But when he took his seat in the council, or girt on his sword for war, 
these tempestuous workings of the soul had left no perceptible trace 
behind them. People who saw nothing of the godly but their uncouth 
visages, and heard nothing from them but their groans and their whining 
hymns, might laugh at them. But those had little reason to laugh who 
encountered them in the hall of debate or in the field of battle. 



THE BELL OF " THE ATLANTIC 19 



( <4^, 



MES. SIGOURNEY. 



$OLL, toll, toll, toll ! 



Thou bell by billows swung, 
,£?|§prb And, night and day, thy warning 
words 
Repeat with mournful tongue ! 
Toll for the queenly boat, 

"Wrecked on yon rocky shore ! 
Sea-weed is in her palace halls — 
She rides the surge no more. 

Toll for the master bold, 

The high-souled and the brave, 
"Who ruled her like a thing of life 

Amid the crested wave ! 
Toll for the hardy crew, 

Sons of the storm and blast, 
"Who long the tyrant ocean dared ; 

But it vanquished them at last. 

Toll for the man of God, 

Whose hallowed voice of prayer 
Rose calm above the stifled groan 

Of that intense despair ! 
How precious were those tones, 

On that sad verge of life, 
Amid the fierce and freezing storm, 

And the mountain billows' strife ! 

Toll for the lover, lost 

To the summoned bridal train, 



Bright glows a picture on his breast, 
Beneath the unfathomed main. 

One from her casement gazeth 
Long o'er the misty sea : 

He cometh not, pale maiden — 
His heart is cold to thee I 

Toll for the absent sire, 

"Who to his home drew near, 

To bless a glad, expecting group- 
Fond wife, and children dear ! 

They heap the blazing hearth, 
The festal board is spread, 

But a fearful guest is at the gate ; — 
Room for the sheeted dead ! 

Toll for the loved and fair, 

The whelmed beneath the tide — 
The broken harps around whose strings 

The dull sea-monsters glide ! 
Mother and nursling sweet, 

Reft from the household throng ; 
There's bitter weeping in the nest 

Where breathed their soul of song, 

Toll for the hearts that bleed 
'Neath misery's furrowing trace ; 

Toll for the hapless orphan left, 
The last of all his race I 



THE BLIND PREACHER. 



185 



Yea, with thy heaviest knell, 
From surge to rocky shore, 

Toll for the living — not the dead, 
Whose mortal woes are o'er. 

Toll, toll, toll ! 
O'er breeze and billow free; 



And with thy startling lore instruct 
Each rover of the sea. 

Tell how o'er proudest joys 
May swift destruction sweep, 

And bid him build his hopes on high- 
Lone teacher of the deep ! 




THE CYCLONE. 



THE BLIND PREACHER. 



WILLIAM WIRT. 



^T was one Sunday, as I was traveling through the county of Orange, 
that my eye was caught by a cluster of horses tied near a ruinous, 
old, wooden house, in the forest, not far from the roadside. Having 
frequently seen such objects before, in traveling through these States, 
I had no difficulty in understanding that this was a place of religious wor- 
ship. Devotion alone should have stopped me, to join in the duties of the 
congregation ; but I must confess that curiosity to hear the preacher of 
such a wilderness was not the least of my motives. On entering, I was 
struck with his preternatural appearance. He was a tall and very spare 
old man; his head, which was covered with a white linen cap, his shriv- 
eled hands, and his voice, were all shaking under the influence of palsy ; 
and a few moments ascertained to me that he was perfectly blind. 

The first emotions which touched my breast were those of mingled 



186 THE BLIND PREACHER. 



pity and veneration. But how soon were all my feelings changed ! The 
lips of Plato were never more worthy of a prognostic swarm of bees than 
were the lips of this holy man. It was a day of the administration of the 
sacrament ; and his subject, of course, was the passion of our Saviour. I 
had heard the subject handled a thousand times ; I had thought it ex- 
hausted long ago. Little did I suppose that, in the wild woods of America, 
I was to meet with a man whose eloquence would give to this topic a new 
and more sublime pathos than I had ever before witnessed. 

As he descended from the pulpit, to distribute the mystic symbols, 
there was a peculiar, a more than human solemnity in his air and manner, 
which made my blood run cold and my whole frame shiver. He then drew 
a picture of the sufferings of our Saviour ; his trial before Pilate ; his as- 
cent up Calvary ; his crucifixion, and his death. I knew the whole history, 
but never, until then, had I heard the circumstances so selected, so 
arranged, so colored. It was all new, and I seemed to have heard it for 
the first time in my life. His enunciation was so deliberate, that his voice 
trembled on every syllable, and every heart in the assembly trembled in 
unison. His peculiar phrases had such force of description, that the ori- 
ginal scene appeared to be at that moment acting before our eyes. We 
saw the very faces of the Jews ; the staring, frightful distortions of malice 
and rage. We saw the buffet ; my soul kindled with a flame of indigna- 
tion, and my hands were involuntarily and convulsively clinched. 

But when he came to touch on the patience, the forgiving meekness, 
of our Saviour; when he drew, to the life, his blessed eyes streaming in 
tears to heaven ; his voice breathing to God a soft and gentle prayer of 
pardon "for his enemies, " Father, forgive them, for they know not what 
they do ! " — the voice of the preacher, which all along faltered, grew 
fainter and fainter, until, his utterance being entirely obstructed by the 
force of his feelings, he raised his handkerchief to his eyes, and burst into 
a loud and irrepressible flow of grief. The effect was inconceivable. The 
whole house resounded with the mingled groans and sobs and shrieks of 
the congregation. 

It was some time before the tumult had subsided so far as to permit 
him to proceed. Indeed, judging by the usual but fallacious standard of 
my own weakness, I began to be very uneasy for the situation of the 
preacher. For I could not conceive how he would be able to let his audi- 
ence down from the height to which he had wound them, without impair- 
ing the solemnity and dignity of his subject, or perhaps shocking them by 
the abruptness of the fall. But — no; the descent was as beautiful and 
sublime as the elevation had been rapid and enthusiastic. The first sen- 



A HUNDRED YEARS FROM NOW. 



187 



tence with which he broke the awful silence was a quotation from Eous- 
seau: " Socrates died like a philosopher ; but Jesus Christ like a God." 

I despair of giving you any idea of the effect produced by this short 
sentence, unless you could perfectly conceive the whole manner of the 
man, as well as the peculiar crisis in the discourse. Never before did I 
completely understand what Demosthenes meant by laying such stress on 
delivery. You are to bring before you the venerable figure of the 
preacher, his blindness constantly recalling to your recollection old Homer, 
Ossian and Milton, and associating with his performance the melancholy 
grandeur of their genius : you are to imagine that you hear his slow, sol- 
emn, well-accented enunciation, and his voice of affecting, trembling mel- 
ody; you are to remember the pitch of passion and enthusiasm to which 
the congregation were raised ; and then the few moments of portentous, 
death-like silence which reigned throughout the house : the preacher, re- 
moving his white handkerchief from his aged face (even yet wet from the 
recent torrent of his tears), and slowly stretching forth the palsied hand 
which holds it, begins the sentence : " Socrates died like a philosopher" — 
then pausing, raised his other hand, pressing them both, clasped together, 
with warmth and energy to his breast, lifting his " sightless balls" to hea- 
ven, and pouring his whole soul into his tremulous voice — " but Jesus 
Christ — like a God I " If he had been in truth an angel of light, the effect 
could scarcely have been more divine. 



A HUNDRED YEARS FROM NOW. 



MARY A. FORD. 




IHE surging sea of human life forever 
onward rolls, 

And bears to the eternal shore its 
daily freight of souls, 

Though bravely sails our bark to- 
day, pale Death sits at the prow, 

And few shall know we ever lived 
a hundred years from now. 



mighty human brotherhood ! why fiercely 

war and strive, 
While God's great world has ample space for 

everything alive ? 



Broad fields uncultured and unclaimed are 

waiting for the plow 
Of progress that shall make them bloom a 

hundred years from now. 

Why should we try so earnestly in life's 
short, narrow span, 

On golden stairs to climb so high above our 
brother-man ? 

Why blindly at an earthly shrine in slavish 
homage bow ? 

Our gold will rust, ourselves be dust, a hun- 
dred years from now. 



188 



WOUNDED. 



Why prize so much the world's applause ? 

Why dread so much its blame ? 
A fleeting echo is its voice of censure or of 

fame ; 
The praise that thrills the heart, the scorn 

that dyes with shame the brow, 
Will be as long-forgotten dreams a hundred 

years from now. 

O patient hearts, that meekly bear your 
weary load of wrong ! 

O earnest hearts, that bravely dare, and, 
striving, grow more strong ! 

Press on till perfect peace is won; you'll 
never dream of how 

You struggled o'er life's thorny road a hun- 
dred years from now. 

Grand, lofty souls, who live and toil that 
freedom, right, and truth 

Alone may rule the universe, for you is end- 
less youth ! 



When 'mid the blest with God you rest, the 

grateful land shall bow 
Above your clay in reverent love a hundred 

years from now. 

Earth's empires rise and fall. Time ! like 

breakers on thy shore 
They rush upon thy rocks of doom, go down, 

and are no more. 
The starry wilderness of worlds that gem 

night's radiant brow 
Will light the skies for other eyes a hundred 

years from now. 

Our Father, to whose sleepless eye the past 

and future stand 
An open page, like babes we cling to thy 

protecting hand ; 
Change, sorrow, death are naught to us if we 

may safely bow 
Beneath the shadow of thy throne a hundred 

years from now. 



WOUNDED. 




WILLIAM E. MILLER. 



;ET me lie down 

If Just here in the shade of this can- 
non-torn tree, 
Here, low on the trampled grass, 
where I may see 
The surge of the combat, and where I 
may hear 

The glad cry of victory, cheer upon cheer : 
Let me lie down. 

Oh, it was grand ! 
Like the tempest we charged, in the triumph 

to share ; 
The tempest, — its fury and thunder were 

there : 
Oa* cm, o'er entrenchments, o'er living and 

dead, 
With the foe under foot, and our flag over- 
head ; 

Oh, it was grand! 



Weary and faint, 
Prone on the soldier's couch, ah, how can I 

rest, 
With this shot-shattered head and sabre- 
pierced breast? 
Comrades, at roll-call when I shall be 

sought, 
Say I fought till I fell, and fell where I fought, 
Wounded and faint. 

Oh, that last charge ! 
Right through the dread hell-fire of shrapnel 

and shell, 
Through without faltering, — clear through 

with a yell ! 
Right in their midst, in the turmoil and 

gloom, 
Like heroes we dashed, at the mandate of 

doom ! 

Oh, that last charge ! 



THE DRUNKARD'S DEATH. 



183 



It was duty ! 
Some things are worthless, and some others 

so good 
That nations who buy them pay only in blood. 
For Freedom and Union each man owes his 

part; 
And here I pay my share, all warm from my 
heart : 

It is duty. 

Dying at last ! 
My mother, dear mother ! with meek tearful 

eye, 
Farewell! and God bless you, for ever and 

aye! 
Oh that I now lay on your pillowing breast, 
To breathe my last sigh on the bosom first 
prest ! 

Dying at last ! 

I am no saint ; 
But, boys, say a prayer. There's one that 
begins 



" Our Father," and then says, " Forgive us 

our sins :" 
Don't forget that part, say that strongly, and 

then 
I'll try to repeat it, and you'll say " Amen !" 

Ah ! I'm no saint. 

Hark ! there's a shout. 
Raise me up, comrades ! We have conquered, 

I know ! — 
Up, on my feet, with my face to the foe ! 
Ah ! there flies the flag, with its star-span- 
gles bright, 
The promise of glory, the symbol of right ! 
Well may they shout ! 

I'm mustered out. 
God of our fathers, our freedom prolong, 
And tread down rebellion, oppression, and 
wrong ! 

land of earth's hope, on thy blood-reddened 

sod, 

1 die for the nation, the Union, and God! 

I'm mustered out. 



THE DRUNKARD'S DEATH. 



CHAELES DICKENS. 

|||ppT last, one bitter night, he sunk down on the door-step, faint and 
ill. The premature decay of vice and profligacy had worn him 
to the bone. His cheeks were hollow and livid ; his eyes were 
sunken, and their sight was dim. His legs trembled beneath his 
weight, and a cold shiver ran through every limb. 
And now the long-forgotten scenes of a mis-spent life crowded thick 
and fast upon him. He thought of the time when he had a home — a 
happy, cheerful home — and of those who peopled it, and flocked about him 
then, until the forms of his elder children seemed to rise from the grave, 
and stand about him — so plain, so clear, and so distinct they were, that he 
could touch and feel them. Looks that he had long forgotten were fixed 
upon him once more ; voices long since hushed in death sounded in his ears 
like the music of village bells. But it was only for an instant. The rain 
beat heavily upon him; and cold and hunger were gnawing at his heart 
again. He rose, and dragged his feeble limbs a few paces further. The 



190 THE DRUNKARD'S DEATH. 



street was silent and empty ; the few passengers who passed by, at that 
late hour, hurried quickly on, and his tremulous voice was lost in the 
violence of the storm. Again that heavy chill struck through his frame, 
and his blood seemed to stagnate beneath it. He coiled himself up in a 
projecting doorway, and tried to sleep. 

But sleep had fled from his dull and glazed eyes. His mind wandered 
strangely, but he was awake and conscious. The well-known shout of 
drunken mirth sounded in his ear, the glass was at his lips, the board was 
covered with choice rich food — they were before him ; he could see them 
all, he had but to reach out his hand, and take them, — and, though the 
illusion was reality itself, he knew that he was sitting alone in the deserted 
street, watching the rain-drops as they pattered on the stones ; that death 
was coming upon him by inches — and that there were none to care for or 
help him. Suddenly he started up in the extremity of terror. He had 
heard his own voice shouting in the night air, he knew not what or 'why. 
Hark ! A groan ! — another ! His senses were leaving him : half-formed 
and incoherent words burst from his lips ; and his hands sought to tear 
and lacerate his flesh. He was going mad, and he shrieked for help till 
his voice failed him. 

He raised his head and looked up the long dismal street. He recollected 
that outcasts like himself, condemned to wander day and night in those 
dreadful streets, had sometimes gone distracted with their own loneliness. 
He remembered to have heard many years before that a homeless wretch 
had once been found in a solitary corner, sharpening a rusty knife to 
plunge into his own heart, preferring death to that endless, weary, wan- 
dering to and fro. In an instant his resolve was taken, his limbs received 
new life ; he ran quickly from the spot, and paused not for breath until he 
reached the river side. He crept softly down the steep stone stairs that 
lead from the commencement of Waterloo Bridge, down to the water's level. 
He crouched into a corner, and held his breath, as the patrol passed. 
Never did prisoner's heart throb with the hope of liberty and life, half so 
eagerly as did that of the wretched man at the prospect of death. The 
watch passed close to him, but he remained unobserved ; and after waiting 
till the sound of footsteps had died away in the distance, he cautiously 
descended, and stood beneath the gloomy arch that forms the landing-place 
from the river. 

The tide was in, and the water flowed at his feet. The rain had ceased, 
the wind was lulled, and all was, for the moment, still and quiet, — so quiet, 
that the slightest sound on the opposite bank, even the rippling of the 
water against the barges, that were moored there, was distinctly audible 



LOVE ME LITTLE, LOVE ME LONG. 



191 



to his ear. The stream stole languidly and sluggishly on. Strange and 
fantastic forms rose to the surface, and beckoned him to approach ; dark 
gleaming eyes peered from the water, and seemed to mock his hesitation, 
while hollow murmurs from behind urged him onward. He retreated a 
few paces, took a short run, a desperate leap, and plunged into the 
water. 

Not five seconds had passed when he rose to the water's surface — but 
what a change had taken place in that short time, in all his thoughts and 
feelings ! Life — life — in any form, poverty, misery, starvation — anything 
but death. He fought and struggled with the water that closed over his 
lead, and screamed in agonies of terror. The curse of his own son rang 
in his ears. The shore — but one foot of dry ground — he could almost 
■touch the step. One hand's breadth nearer, and he was saved — but the 
tide bore him onward, under the dark arches of the bridge, and he sank to 
the bottom. Again he rose and struggled for life. For one instant — for 
one brief instant— the buildings on the river's banks, the lights on the bridge 
through which the current had borne him, the black water, and the fast- 
flying clouds, were distinctly visible — once more he sunk, and once again 
he rose. Bright flames of fire shot up from earth to heaven, and 
reeled before his eyes, while the water thundered in his ears, and stunned 
liim with its furious roar. 

A week afterwards the body was washed ashore, some miles down the 
river, a swollen and disfigured mass. Unrecognized and unpitied, it was 
Lome to the grave ; and there it has long since mouldered away ! 



LOVE ME LITTLE, LOVE ME LONG. 



ORIGINALLY PRINTED IN 1569. 



sOVE me little, love me long ! 
Is the burden of my song : 
Love that is too hot and strong 
Burnetii soon to waste. 
Still I would not have thee cold, — 
Not too backward, nor too bold ; 
Love that lasteth till 'tis old 
Fadeth not in haste. 

Love me little, love me long ! 

j.s the burden ol my song. 



If thou lovest me too much, 
'Twill not prove as true a touch ; 
Love me little more than such, — 

For I fear the end. 
I'm with little well content, 
And a little from thee sent 
Is enough, with true intent 

To be steadfast, friend. 
Love me little, love me lon^ . 
is the burden of my song. 



192 



YOU PUT NO FLOWERS ON MY PAPA'S GRAVE. 



Say thou lovest me, while thou live 
I to thee my love will give, 
Never dreaming to deceive 

While that life endures ; 
Nay, and after death, in sooth, 
I to thee will keep my truth, 
As now when in my May of youth : 

This my love assures. 

Constant love is moderate ever, 
And it will through life persever ; 
Give me that with true endeavor, — 
I will it restore. 



A suit of durance let it be, 
For all weathers, — that for me, — 
For the land or for the sea : 
Lasting evermore. 

Winter's cold or summer's heat, 
Autumn's tempests on it beat; 
It can never know defeat, 

Never can rebel : 
Such the love that I would gain, 
Such the love, I tell thee plain, 
Thou must give, or woo in vain : 

So to thee — farewell ! 



YOU PUT NO FLOWERS ON MY PAPA'S GRAVE. 



C. E. L. HOLMES. 




ITH sable-draped banners, and slow 

measured tread, 
The flower-laden ranks pass the 

gates of the dead ; 
And seeking each mound where a 

comrade's form rests, 
Leave tear-bedewed garlands to 

bloom on his breast. 




Ended at last is the labor of love ; 
Once more through the gateway the saddened 

lines move — 
A wailing of anguish, a sobbing of grief, 
Falls low on the ear of the battle-scarred 

chief; 



Close crouched by the portals, a sunny -haired 
child 

Besought him in accents which grief render- 
ed wild : 

" Oh ! sir, he was good, and they say he died 

brave — 
Why ! why ! did you pass by my dear papa's 

grave ? 
I know he was poor, but as kind and as true 
As ever marched into the battle with you — 
His grave is so humble, no stone marks the 

spot, 
You may not have seen it. Oh, say you did 

not! 
For my poor heart will break if you knew 

he was there, 
And thought him too lowly your offerings 

to share. 
He didn't die lowly — he poured his heart's 

blood, 
In rich crimson streams, from the top- 

crcwning sod 
Of the breastworks which stood in front oi 

the fight — 
And died shouting, ' Onward ! for God and 

the right!' 
O'er all his dead comrades your bright gar- 
lands wave, 



THE COCKNEY. 



193 



But you haven't put one on my papa's grave. 
If mamma were here — but she lies by his side, 
Her wearied heart broke when our dear papa 
died." 

"Battalion! file left! countermarch!" cried 

the chief, 
n This young orphan' d maid hath full cause 

for her grief." 
Then up in his arms from the hot, dusty 

street, 
He lifted the maiden, while in through the 

gate 
The long line repasses, and many an eye 
Pays fresh tribute of tears to the lone orphan's 



*' This way, it is — here, sir — right under this 

tree ; 
They lie close together, with just room for 

me." 

" Halt ! Cover with roses each lowly green 
mound — 

A love pure as this makes these graves hal- 
lowed ground." 



" Oh ! thank you, kind sir ! I ne'er can repay 

The kindness you've shown little Daisy to- 
day ; 

But I'll pray for you here, each day while I 
live, 

' Tis all that a poor soldier's orphan can give. 

I shall see papa soon, and dear mamma too — 
I dreamed so last night, and I know 'twill 

come true; 
And they will both bless you, I know, when 

I say 
How you folded your arms round their dear 

one to-day — 
How you cheered her sad heart, and soothed 

it to rest, 
And hushed its wild throbs on your strong, 

noble breast ; 
And when the kind angels shall call you to 

come, 
We'll welcome you there to our beautiful 

home, 
Where death never comes, his black banners 

to wave, 
And the beautiful flowers ne'er weep o'er a 

grave." 



THE COCKNEY. 



JOHN G. SAXE. 



)T was in my foreign travel, 
5 At a famous Flemish inn, 
? That I met a stoutish person 
1 With a very ruddy skin ; 
And his hair was something sandy, 

And was done in knotty, curls, 
And was parted in the middle, 
In the manner of a girl's. 

He was clad in checkered trousers, 

And his coat was of a sort 
To suggest a scanty pattern, 

It was bobbed so very short ; 
And his cap was very little, 

Such as soldiers often use ; 
o.nd he wore a pair of gaiters, 

And extremely heavy shoes. 
13 



I addressed the man in English, 

And he answered in the same, 
Though he spoke it in a fashion 

That I thought a little lame ; 
For the aspirate was missing 

Where the letter should have been, 
But where'er it wasn't wanted, 

He was sure to put it in ! 

When I spoke with admiration 

Of St. Peter's mighty dome, 
He remarked : " 'T is really nothing 

To the sights we' ave at 'ome !" 
And declared upon his honor, — 

Though, of course, 't was very queer, 
That he doubted if the Romans 

'Ad the Aart of making beer! 



194 



THE CORONATION OF ANNE BOLEYN. 



Then we talked of the countries, 


When I left the man m gaiters, 


And he said that he had heard 


He was grumbling, o'er his gin, 


That h Americans spoke h English, 


At the charges of his hostess 


But he deemed it quite Aabsurd ; 


At that famous Flemish inn ; 


Yet he felt the deepest Amtrest 


And he looked a very Briton, 


In the missionary work, 


(So, methinks, I see him still,) 


And would like to know if Georgia 


As he pocketed the candle 


Was in Boston or New York ! 


That was mentioned in the bill ! 



THE CORONATION OF ANNE BOLEYN 



J. A. FKOUDE. 



f|||LOKIOUS as the spectacle was, perhaps, however it passed unheeded. 
yip Those eyes were watching all for another object, which now drew 
near. In an open space behind the constable there was seen 
approaching "a, white chariot," drawn by two palfreys in white 
j| damask which swept the ground, a golden canopy borne above it 
I making music with silver bells : and in the chariot sat the observed 
of all observers, the beautiful occasion of all this glittering homage; 
fortune's plaything of the hour, the Queen of England — queen at last ! — 
borne along upon the waves of this sea of glory, breathing the perfumed 
incense of greatness which she had risked her fair name, her delicacy, her 
honor, her self-respect, to win ; and she had won it. 

There she sat, dressed in white tissue robes, her fair hair flowing 
loose over her shoulders, and her temples circled with a light coronet of 
gold and diamonds — most beautiful — loveliest — most favored, perhaps, as 
she seemed at that hour, of all England's daughters. Alas ! " within the 
hollow round of that coronet — 

" Kept Death his court, and there the antick sate 
Scoffing her state and grinning at her pomp ; 
Allowing her a little breath, a little scene 
To monarchize, be feared, and kill with looks, 
Infusing her with self and vain conceit, 
As if the flesh which walled about her life 
Were brass impregnable ; and humored thus, 
Bored thro' her castle walls ; and farewell, Queen ! " 



Fatal gift of greatness ! so dangerous ever ! so more than danp-erous 
in those tremendous times when the fountains are broken loos^ of the 



SCATTER THE GERMS OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 195 

great deeps of thought, and nations are in the throes of revolution ; when 
ancient order and law and traditions are splitting in the social earthquake ; 
and as the opposing forces wrestle to and fro, those unhappy ones who 
stand out above the crowd become the symbols of the struggle, and fall the 
victims of its alternating fortunes. And what if into an unsteady heart 
and brain, intoxicated with splendor, the outward chaos should find its 
way, converting the poor silly soul into an image of the same confusion — 
if conscience should be deposed from her high place, and the Pandora box 
be broken loose of passions and sensualities and follies; and at length there 
be nothing left of all which man or woman ought to value, save hope of 
God's forgiveness. 

Three short years have yet to pass, and again, on a summer morning, 
Queen Anne Boleyn will leave the Tower of London — not radiant then 
with beauty on a gay errand of coronation, but a poor, wandering ghost, 
on a sad, tragic errand, from which she will never more return, passing 
away out of an earth where she may stay no longer, into a presence where, 
nevertheless, we know that all is well — for all of us — and therefore for 
her. 

Did any twinge of remorse, any pang of painful recollection, pierce at 
that moment the incense of glory which she was inhaling ? Did any 
vision flit across her of a sad, mourning figure which once had stood where 
she was standing, now desolate, neglected, sinking into the darkening twi-. 
light of a life cut short by sorrow ? Who can tell ? At such a time that 
figure would have weighed heavily upon a noble mind, and a wise mind 
would have been taught by the thought of it, that, although life be fleet- 
ing as a dream, it is long enough to experience strange vicissitudes of for- 
tune. 




SCATTER THE GERMS OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 



|CATTER the germs of the beautiful, j Let the pure, and the fair, and the graceful 
By the wayside let them fall, there 

°f$p£^f That the rose may spring by the ; In the loveliest lustre come. 



<W ** cottage gate, 

And the vine on the garden wall 
Cover the rough and the rude of earth 
With a veil of leaves and flowers, 
And mark with the opening bud and cup' 
The march of summer hours ! 

Scatter the germs of the beautiful 
In the holy shrine of home ; 



Leave not a trace of deformity 
In the temple of the heart, 

But gather about its hearth the gems 
Of nature and of art ! 

Scatter the germs of the beautiful 
In the temples of our God — 

The God who starred the uplifted sky, 
And flowered the trampled sod ! 



196 



MY CHILDHOOD HOME. 



When he built a temple for himself, 
And a home for his priestly race, 

He reared each arm in symmetry, 
And covered each line in grace. 

Scatter the germs of the beautiful 
In the depths of the human soul ! 



They shall bud and blossom and bear the 
fruit, 

While the endless ages roll ; 
Plant with the flowers of charity 

The portals of the tomb, 
And fair and pure about thy path 

In Paradise shall bloom. 




MY CHILDHOOD HOME. 



B. P. SHILLABER. 



|j|i|piIERE'S a little low hut by the river's 

iiP»*T Within the sound of its rippling tide ; 
@l* Its walis are grey with the mosses of 
4 years, 

And its roof all crumbled and old 
| appears ; 

But fairer to me than castle's pride 
Is the little low hut by the river's side. 

The little low hut was my natal nest, 
When my childhood passed — Life's spring- 
time blest ; 
Where the hopes of ardent youth are formed, 



And the sun of promise my young heart 

warmed, 
Ere I threw myself on life's swift tide, 
And left the dear hut by the river's side. 

That little low hut, in lowly guise, 
Was soft and grand to my youthful eyes, 
And fairer trees were ne'er known before, 
Than the apple-trees by the humble door, — 
That my father loved for their thrifty pride, — 
That shadowed the hut by the river's side. 

That little low hut had a glad hearthstone, 
That echoed of old with a pleasant tone, 



THE RUINED MERCHANT. 



197 



And brothers and sisters, a merry crew, 
Filled the hours with pleasure as on they 

flew; 
But one by one the loved ones died, 
That dwelt in the hut by the river's side. 

The father revered and the children gay 
The graves of the world have called away ; 
But quietly, all alone, here sits 
By the pleasant window, in summer, and 

knits, 
An aged woman, long years allied 
With the little low hut by the river's side. 

That little low hut to the lonely wife 
Is the cherished stage of her active life ; 
Each scene is recalled in memory's beam, 
As she sits by the window in pensive dream, 



And joys and woes roll back like a tide 
In that little low hut by the river's side. 

My mother — alone by the river's side 

She waits for the flood of the heavenly tide, 

And the voice that shall thrill her heart with 

its call 
To meet once more with the dear ones all, 
And forms in a region beautified, 
The band that once met by the river's side. 

The dear old hut by the river's side 

With the warmest pulse of my heart is 

allied, — 
And a glory is over its dark walls thrown, 
That statelier fabrics have never known, — 
And I shall love with a fonder pride 
That little low hut by the river's side. 



THE RUINED MERCHANT. 




CORA M. EAGER. 



COTTAGE home with sloping lawn, 
and trellised vines and flowers, 

And little feet to chase away the 
rosy-fingered hours ; 

A fair young face to part, at eve, 
the shadows in the door ; — 

I picture thus a home I knew in 
happy days of yore. 



Says one, a cherub thing of three, with 

childish heart elate, 
" Papa is tomin let me do to meet \m at te 

date /" 
Another takes the music up, and flings it on 

the air, 
41 Papa has come, but why so slow his footstep 

on the stair?" 

* father ! did you bring the books I've 

waited for so long, 
The baby's rocking-horse and drum, and 

mother's ' angel song ?' 
And did you see " — but something holds the 

questioning lips apart, 
And something settles very still upon that 

joyous heart. 



The quick-discerning wife bends down, with 

her white hand to stay 
The clouds from tangling with the curls that 

on his forehead lay ; 
To ask, in gentle tones, " Beloved, by what 

rude tempest tossed?" 
And list the hollow, " Beggared, lost, — all 

ruined, poor, and lost !" 

" Nay, say not so, for I am here to share 

misfortune's hour, 
And prove how better far than gold is love's 

unfailing dower. 
Let wealth take wings and fly away, as far 

as wings can soar, 
The bird of love will hover near, and only 

sing the more." 

" All lost, papa? why here am I ; and, father, 
see how tall ; 

I measure fully three feet four, upon the kit- 
chen wall ; 

I'll tend the flowers, feed the birds, and have 
such lots of fun, 

I'm big enough to work, papa, for I'm the 
oldest son." 



198 



TRUTH. 



" And I, papa, am almost five," says curly- 
headed Rose, 

" And I can learn to sew, papa, and make all 
dolly's clothes. 

But what is ' poor,' — to stay at home and have 
no place to go ? 

Oh ! then I'll ask the Lord, to-night, to make 
us always so." 

'Tse here, papa; I isn't lost!" and on his 
father's knee 

He lays his sunny head to rest, that baby- 
boy of three. 

" And if we get too poor to live," says little 
Rose, " you know 

There is a better place, papa, a heaven where 
we can go. 

"And God will come and take us there, dear 

father, if we pray, 
We need'nt fear the road, papa, He surely 

knows the way." 
Then from the corner, staff in hand, the 

grandma rises slow, 
Her snowy cap-strings in the breeze soft 

fluttering to and fro : 

Totters across the parlor floor, by aid of 
kindly hands. 

Counting in every little face, her life's declin- 
ing sands ; 



Reaches his side, and whispers low, " God's 

promises are sure ; 
For every grievous wound, my son, He sends; 

a ready cure." 

The father clasps her hand in his, and quickly 
turns aside, 

The heaving chest, the rising sigh, the com- 
ing tear, to hide ; 

Folds to his heart those loving ones, and kis- 
ses o'er and o'er 

That noble wife whose faithful heart he little- 
knew before. 

" May God forgive me ! What is wealth to- 
these more precious things, 

Whose rich affection round my heart a cease- 
less odor flings ? 

I think He knew my sordid soul was getting; 
proud and cold, 

And thus to save me, gave me these, and took 
away my gold. 

" Dear ones, forgive me ; nevermore will I 

forget the rod 
That brought me safely unto you, and led 

me back to God. 
I am not poor while these bright links of 

priceless love remain, 
And, Heaven helping, never more shall 

blindness hide the chain." 



TR UTH. 



JOHN MILTON. 




|RUTH, indeed, came once into the world with her Divine Master, 
and was a perfect shape, most glorious to look on; bat when he- 
ascended, and his apostles after him were laid asleep, then straight, 
arose a wicked race of deceivers, who, as that story goes of the 
Egyptian Typhon with his conspirators, how they dealt with the 
god Osiris, took the virgin Truth, hewed her lovely form into a 
thousand pieces, and scattered them to the four winds. From that time, 
ever since, the sad friends of Truth, such as durst appear, Imitating the 
careful search that Isis made for the mangled body of Osiris, went up and 



THE MILKMAID. 



199 



down gathering up limb by limb, still as they could find them. We have 
not yet found them all, Lords and Commons, nor ever shall do, till 
her Master's second coming; he shall bring together every joint and 
member, and mould them into an immortal feature of loveliness and 
perfection. 



THE DEATH-BED. 




THOMAS HOOD. 



watched her breathing through 
the night, — 



Her breathing soft and low- 
As in her breast the wave of 
Kept heaving to and fro. 

T So silently we seemed to speak, 
So slowly moved about, 
As we had lent her half our powers, 
To eke her living out. 



life 



Our weary hopes belied our fears, 
Our fears our hopes belied, — 

We thought her dying when she slept, 
And sleeping when she died. 

For when the morn came, dim and sad, 
And chill with early showers, 

Her quiet eyelids closed ; — she had 
Another morn than ours. 



THE MILKMAID. 




JEFFEEYS TAYLOE. 



MILKMAID, who poised a full pail 

on her head, 
Thus mused on her prospects in life, 

it is said : 
" Let me see, — I should think that 
this milk will procure 
One hundred good eggs, or fourscore, to be 
sure. 

" Well then, — stop a bit, — it must not be 

forgotten, 
Some of these may be broken, and some may 

be rotten ; 
But if twenty for accident should be detached, 
It will leave me just sixty sound eggs to -be 

hatched. 

" Well, sixty sound eggs, — no, sound chick- 
ens, I mean : 



Of these some may die, — we'll suppose seven- 
teen, 
Seventeen ! not so many, — say ten at the most, 
Which will leave fifty chickens to boil or to 
roast. 

" But then there's their barley: how much 

will they need ? 
Why, they take but one grain at a time when 

they feed, — 
So that's a mere trifle ; now then, let us see, 
At a fair market price how much money 

there'll be. 

" Six shillings a pair — five; — four — three-and- 

six, 
To prevent all mistakes, that low price I 

will fix ; 



200 



THE WATER-MILL. 



Now what will that make? fifty chickens, 

I said, — 
Fifty times three-and-sixpence — 111 ask 

Brother Ned. 

" 0, but stop, — three-and-sixpence a pair I 

must sell 'em : 
"Well, a pair is a couple, — now then let us tell 

'em ; 
A couple in fifty will go (my poor brain !) 
Why, just a score times, and five pair will 

remain. 

" Twenty five pair of fowls — now how tire- 
some it is 
That I can't reckon up so much money as 

this! 
Well, there's no use in trying, so let's give a 

guess, — 
I'll say twenty pounds, and it can't he no less. 



" Twenty pounds, I am certain, will buy me 

a cow, 
Thirty geese, and two turkeys, — eight pigs 

and a sow ; 
Now if these turn out well, at the end of the 

year, 
I shall fill both my pockets with guineas, 'tis 

clear." 

Forgetting her burden, when this she had 

said, 
The maid superciliously tossed up her head ; 
When, alas for her prospects ! her milk-pail 

descended, 
And so all her schemes for the future wera 

ended. 



This moral, I think, may be safely attached ; 
" Reckon not on your chickens before they 
are hatched." 



THE WATER-MILL. 




D. C. M'CALLUM. 



jH ! listen to the water-mill, through 
all the live-long day, 
As the clicking of the wheels wears 
hour by hour away ; 
«{* How languidly the autumn wind 
doth stir the withered leaves, 
As on the fields the reapers sing, while bind- 
ing up the sheaves ! 
A solemn proverb strikes my mind, and as a 

spell is cast, 
" The mill will never grind again with water 
that is past." 

The summer winds revive no more leaves 
strewn o'er earth and main, 

The sickle never more will reap the yellow 
garnered grain ; 

The rippling stream flowa ever on, aye tran- 
quil, deep and still, 

But never glideth back again to busy water- 
mill. 

The solemn proverb speaks to all, with 
meaning deep and vast, 

" The mill will never grind again with water 
that is past." 



Oh ! clasp the proverb to thy soul, dear loving 
heart and true, 

For golden years are fleeting by, and youth 
is passing too ; 

Ah ! learn to make the most of life, nor lose 
one happy day, 

For time will ne'er return sweet joys 
neglected, thrown away ; 

Nor leave one tender word unsaid, thy kind- 
ness sow broadcast — 

" The mill will never grind again with water 
that is past." 

Oh ! the wasted hours of life, that have 

swiftly drifted by, 
Alas ! the good we might have done, all gone 

without a sigh ; 
Love that we might once have saved by a 

single kindly word, 
Thoughts conceived but ne'er expressed, 

perishing unpenned, unheard. 
Oh ! take ihe lesson to thy soul, forever 

clasp it fast, 
" The mill will never grind again with water 

that is past." 



TRAMP, TRAMP, TRAMP. 



201 



thou 



The 



Nor 



by 



Work on while yet the sun doth shine 

man of strength and will, 
streamlet ne'er doth useless glide 

clicking water-mill ; 
wait until to-morrow's light beams 

brightly on thy way, 
For all that thou canst call thine own, lies 

in the phrase " to-day :" 
Possessions, power, and blooming health, 

must all be lost at last — 
" The mill will never grind again with water 

that is past." 



Oh ! love thy God and fellow-man, thyself 

consider last, 
For come it will when thou must scan dark 

errors of the past ; 
Soon will this fight of life be o'er, and earth 

recede from view, 
And heaven in all its glory shine where all 

is pure and true, 
Ah ! then thou'lt see more clearly still the 

proverb deep and vast, 




THE WATEE-MILL. 



The mill will never grind again with water 
that is past." 



TRAMP, TRAMP, TRAMP. 




J> G. HOLLAND. 



fRAMP, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching; how many of them? 
Sixty thousand ! Sixty full regiments, every man of which will, 
before twelve months shall have completed their course, lie down 
in the grave of a drunkard ! Every year during the past decade 
has witnessed the same sacrifice ; and sixty regiments stand behind 
this army ready to take its place. It is to be recruited from our children 
and our children's children. Tramp, tramp, tramp — the sounds come to 
us in the echoes of the army just expired ; tramp, tramp, tramp — the 
earth shakes with the tread of the host now passing ; tramp, tramp, 
tramp — comes to us from the camp of the recruits. A great tide of life 
flows resistlessly to its death. What in God's name are they fighting for ? 
The privilege of pleasing an appetite, of conforming to a social usage, of 
filling sixty thousand homes with shame and sorrow, of loading the public 
with the burden of pauperism, of crowding our prison-houses with felons, 
of detracting from the productive industries of the country, of ruining for- 



202 TRAMP, TRAMP, TRAMP. 



tunes and breaking hopes, of breeding disease and wretchedness, of de- 
stroying both body and soul in hell before their time. 

The prosperity of the liquor interest, covering every department of it, 
depends entirely on the maintenance of this army. It cannot live without 
it. It never did live without it. So long as the liquor interest maintains 
its present prosperous condition, it wiii cost America the sacrifice 
of sixty thousand men every year. The effect is inseparable from the 
cause. The cost to the country of the liquor traffic is a sum so stu- 
pendous that any figures which we should dare to give would convict 
us of trifling. The amount of life absolutely destroyed, the amount 
of industry sacrificed, the amount of bread transformed into poison, 
the shame, the unavailing sorrow, the crime, the poverty, the pauperism, 
the brutality, the wild waste of vital and financial resources, make 
an aggregate so vast — so incalculably vast, — that the only wonder is that 
the American people do not rise as one man and declare that this great 
curse shall exist no longer. 

A hue-and-cry is raised about woman-suffrage, as if any wrong which 
may be involved in woman's lack of the suffrage could be compared to the 
wrongs attached to the liquor interest. 

Does any sane woman doubt that women are suffering a thousand 
times more from rum than from any political disability ? 

The truth is that there is no question before the American people 
to-day that begins to match in importance the temperance question. The 
question of American slavery was never anything but a baby by the side 
of this ; and we prophesy that within ten years, if not within five, the 
whole country will be awake to it, and divided upon it. The organizations 
of the liquor interest, the vast funds at its command, the universal feeling 
among those whose business is pitted against the national prosperity and 
the public morals— these are enough to show that, upon one side of this 
matter, at least, the present condition of things and the social and political 
questions that lie in the immediate future are apprehended. The liquor 
interest knows there is to be a great struggle and is preparing to meet it. 
People both in this country and in Great Britain are beginning to see the 
enormity of this business — are beginning to realize that Christian civiliza- 
tion is actually poisoned at its fountain, and that there can be no purifica- 
tion of it until the source of the poison is dried up. 

Temperance laws are being passed by the various Legislatures, which 
they must sustain, or go over, soul and body, to the liquor interest and 
influence. Steps are being taken on behalf of the public health, morals, 
and prosperity, which they must approve by voice and act, or they must 



ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 



203 



consent to be left behind and left out. There can be no concession and 
no compromise on the part of temperance men, and no quarter to the foe. 
The great curse of our country and our race must be destroyed. 

Meantime, the tramp, tramp, tramp, sounds on, — the tramp of sixty 
thousand yearly victims. Some are besotted and stupid, some are wild 
with hilarity and dance along the dusty way, some reel along in pitiful 
weakness, some wreak their mad and murderous impulses on one another, 
or on the helpless women and children whose destinies are united to theirs, 
some stop in wayside debaucheries and infamies for a moment, some go 
bound in chains from which they seek in vain to wrench their bleeding 
wrists, and all are poisoned in body and soul, and all are doomed to death. 




EXTRACT FROM GRAY'S ELEGY, 




THOMAS GRAY. 



pj^ULL many a gem of purest ray ser.ene 
The dark, unfathomed caves of 
ocean bear ; 
4j>y Full many a flower is born to blush 
unseen, 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 



Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless 

breast, 

The little tyrant of his fields withstood; 

.Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest ; 

Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's 

blood. 



204 



ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 



The applause of listening senates to com- 
mand, 

The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 

And read their history in a nation's eyes, 

Their lot forbade ; nor circumscribed alone 
Their growing virtues, but their crimes 
confined ; 
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a 
throne, 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to 
hide, 

To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 
Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride 

With incense kindled at the muse's flame. 

Far from the mad'ning crowd's ignoble 
strife, 
Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; 
Along the cool, sequestered vale of life 
They kept the noiseless tenor of their 
way. 

Yet even these bones from insult to protect, 
Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture 
decked, 
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by the unlet- 
tered muse, 

The place of fame and elegy supply ; 
And many a holy text around she strews, 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 
This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
Nor cast one longing, lingering look 
behind ? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 
Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; 

E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature 
cries, 
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 



For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead, 
Dost in these lines their artless tale re- 
late ; 

If chance, by lonely contemplation led, 
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate. 

Haply some hoary -headed swain may say : — 
" Oft have we seen him, at the peep of 
dawn, 

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 

" There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 

That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so 

high, 

His listless length at noontide would he 

stretch, 

And pore upon the brook that babbles 

by- 

" Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 

Muttering his wayward fancies, he would 

rove ; 

Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn, 

Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless 

love. 

" One morn I missed him on the customed 
b hill, 
Along the heath, and near his favorite 
tree; 
Another came, — nor yet beside the rill, 
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was 
he; 

" The next, with dirges due, in sad array, 
Slow through the church-way path we saw 
him borne ; — 
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the 
lay 
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged 
thorn." 

THE EPITAPH. 

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth 
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown ; 

Fair science frowned not on his humble 
birth, 
And melancholy marked him for her own. 



THE ANGLEE. 



205 



Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; 


No further seek his merits to disclose, 


Heaven did a recompense as largely send; 


Or draw his frailties from their dread 


He gave to misery (all he had) a tear, 


abode, — 


He gained from heaven ('twas all he 


(There they alike in trembling hope repose,) 


wished) a friend. 


The bosom of his Father and his God. 



LANDING OF THE PILGRIMS. 



FELICIA HEMANS. 




HE breaking waves dashed high 
On a stern and rock-bound coast, 
And the woods against a stormy sky 
Their giant branches tossed ; 

And the heavy night hung dark 
The hills and waters o'er, 

When a band of exiles moored their 
bark 
On the wild New England shore. 



Not as the conqueror comes, 

They, the true-hearted, came ; 
Not with the roll of the stirring drums, 

And the trumpet that sings of fame ; 

Not as the flying come, 

In silence and in fear ; — 
They shook the depths of the desert gloom 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amidst the storm they sang, 

And the stars heard, and the sea ; 

And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 
To the anthem of the free. 



The ocean eagle soared 

From his nest by the white wave's foam, 
And the rocking pines of the forest roared,^ 

This was their welcome home. 

There were men with hoary hair 

Amidst that pilgrim-band : 
Why had they come to wither there, 

Away from their childhood's land ? 

There was woman's fearless eye, 

Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
There was manhood's brow serenely high, 

And the fiery heart of youth. 

What sought they thus afar ? 

Bright j ewels of the mine ? 
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ? — 

They sought a faith's pure shrine ! 

Ay, call it holy ground, 

The soil where first they trod ; 
They have left unstained what there they 
found, — 

Freedom to worship God. 



THE ANGLER. 




CHALKHILL. 



THE gallant fisher's life, 
It is the best of any ! 
'Tis full of pleasure, void of strife! 
And 'tis beloved by many ; 
Other joys 
Are but toys; 



Only this 
Lawful is ; 
For our skill 
Breeds no ill, 
But content and pleasure. 



206 



THE ANGLER. 



In a morning, up we rise, 
Ere Aurora's peeping ; 

Drink a cup to wash our eyes, 
Leave the sluggard sleeping 
Then we go 



When we please to walk abroad 

For our recreation, 
In the fields is our abode, 

Full of delectation, 

Where, in a brook, 




" O the gallant fisher's life, 
It is the best of any !" 



To and fro, 
With our knacks 
At our backs, 
To such streams 
as the Tnames, 
If we have the leisure. 



With a hook, — 
Or a lake, — 
Fish we take ; 
There we sit, 
For a bit, 
Till we fish entangle. 



IMMORTALITY. 



207 



We have gentles in a horn, 

We have paste and worms too ; 
We can watch both night and morn, 
Suffer rain and storms too ; 
None do here 
Use to swear: 
Oaths do fray 
Fish away ; 
We sit still, 
Watch our quill : 
Fishers must not wrangle. 

If the sun's excessive heat 
Make our bodies swelter, 
i'o an osier hedge we get, 
For a friendly shelter ; 
Where, in a dike, 
Perch or pike, 



Roach or dace, 
We do chase, 
Bleak or gudgeon, 
Without grudging ; 
We are still contented. 



Or we sometimes pass an hour 

Under a green willow, 
That defends us from a shower, 
Making earth our pillow ; 
Where we may 
Think and pray, 
Before death 
Stops our breath ; 
Other joys 
Are but toys, 
And to be lamented. 



IMMORTALITY. 



MASSILLON. 



jF we wholly perish with the body, what an imposture is this whole 
system of laws, manners, and usages, on which human society is 
founded ! If we wholly perish with the body, these maxims of 
charity, patience, justice, honor, gratitude, and friendship, which 
I sages have taught and good men have practised, what are they but 
1 empty words possessing no real and binding efficacy? Why should 
we heed them, if in this life only we have hope? Speak not of duty. 
What can we owe to the dead, to the living, to ourselves, if all are or 
will be, nothing? Who shall dictate our duty, if not our own pleasures, — 
if not our own passions ? Speak not of morality. It is a mere chimera, 
a bugbear of human invention, if retribution terminate with the grave. 

If we must wholly perish, what to us are the sweet ties of kindred ? 
What the tender names of parent, child, sister, brother, husband, wife, or 
friend ? The characters of a drama are not more illusive. We have no 
ancestors, no descendants ; since succession cannot be predicated of nothing- 
ness. Would we honor the illustrious dead ? How absurd to honor that 
which has no existence ! Would we take thought for posterity ? How 
frivolous to concern ourselves for those whose end, like our own, must soon 
be annihilation ! Have we made a promise ? How can it bind nothing to 
nothing? Perjury is but a jest. The last injunctions of the dying, what 



208 



THE. TEMPEST. 



sanctity have they, more than the last sound of a chord that is snapped, of 
an instrument that is broken ? 

To sum up all : If we must wholly perish, then is obedience to the laws 
but an insane servitude; rulers and magistrates are but the phantoms 
which popular imbecility has raised up ; justice is an unwarrantable in- 
fringement upon the liberty of men, — an imposition, a usurpation ; the law 
of marriage is a vain scruple; modesty a prejudice; honor and probity, 
such stuff as dreams are made of; and incests, murders, parricides, the 
most heartless cruelties and the blackest crimes, are but the legitimate 
sports of man's irresponsible nature ; while the harsh epithets attached to 
them are merely such as the policy of legislators has invented, and imposed 
upon the credulity of the people. 

Here is the issue to which the vaunted philosophy of unbelievers must 
inevitably lead. Here is that social felicity, that sway of reason, that 
emancipation from error, of which they eternally prate, as the fruit of 
their doctrines. Accept their maxims, and the whole world falls back into 
a frightful chaos ; and all the relations of life are confounded; and all ideas 
of vice and virtue are reversed ; and the most inviolable laws of society 
vanish ; and all moral discipline perishes ; and the government of states 
and nations has no longer any cement to uphold it ; and all the harmony 
of the body politic becomes discord ; and the human race is no more than 
an assemblage of reckless barbarians, shameless, remorseless, brutal, de- 
naturalized, with no other law than force, no other check than passion, no 
other bond than irreligion, no other God than self! Such would be the 
world which impiety would make. Such would be this world, were a belief 
in God and immortality to die out of the human heart. 



THE TEMPEST. 



J. T. FIELDS. 




E were crowded in the cabin, 
IfS Not a soul would dare to sleep ,- 
™Mz It was midnight on the waters 
And a storm upon the deep. 

'T is a fearful thing in winter 
To be shattered by the blast, 

And to hear the rattling trumpet 
Thunder, " Cut away the mast !" 



So we shuddered there in silence, — 
For the stoutest held his breath, 

While the hungry sea was roaring, 
And the breakers talked with Death. 

As thus we sat in darkness, 
Each one busy in his prayers, 

" We are lost !" the captain shouted 
As he staggered down the stairs. 



OLD-SCHOOL PUNISHMENT. 



209 



But his little daughter whispered, 
As she took his icy hand, 

" Is n't God upon the ocean 
Just the same as on the land ?" 



Then we kissed the little maiden, 
And we spoke in better cheer, 

And we anchored safe in harbor 
When the morn was shining clear. 



INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. 




WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 



>UR birth is but a sleep and a forget- 
ting ; 
The soul that rises with us, our life's 

star, 
Hath had elsewhere its setting, 
And cometh from afar. 
Not in entire forgetfulness, 
And not in utter nakedness, 
But trailing clouds of glory, do we come 

From God, who is our home. 
Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 

Upon the growing boy ; 
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows- 
He sees it in his joy. 
The youth who daily farther from the east 
Must travel, still is nature's priest, 
And by the vision splendid 
Is on his way attended : 
At length the man perceives it die away, 
And fade into the light of common day. 

Oh joy ! that in our embers 

Is something that doth live, 
That nature yet remembers 
What was so fugitive ! 
The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
Perpetual benediction : not, indeed, 
For that which is most worthy to be blest, — 
Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, 



in his 



With new-fledged hope still fluttering 
breast, — 
Not for these I raise 
The song of thanks and praise ; 
But for those obstinate questionings 
Of sense and outward things, 
Fallings from us, vanishings, 
Blank misgivings of a creature 
Moving about in worlds not realized, 
High instincts before which our mortal nature 
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised, — 
But for those first affections, 
Those shadowy recollections, 
Which, be they what they may, 
Are yet the fountain-light of all our day- 
Are yet a master light of all our seeing, 

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal silence ; truths that wake, 

To perish never, — 
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor, 

Nor man nor boy, 
Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 

Hence in a season of calm weather, 
Though inland far we be, 
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 
Which brought us hither, — 
Can in a moment travel thither, 
And see the children sport upon the shore, 
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 



OLD-SCHOOL PUNISHMENT 




LD Master Brown brought his ferule 
down, 
And his face looked angry and 
red. 



" Go, seat you there, now, Anthony Blair. 

Along with the girls," he said. 
Then Anthony Blair, with a mortified air, 

With his head down on his breast, 



14 



210 



DRIFTING. 



Took his penitent seat by the maiden sweet 

That he loved, of all, the best. 
And Anthony Blair, seemed whimpering 
mere, 



But the rogue only made believe ; 
For he peeped at the girls with the beautiful 
curls, 
And ogled them over his sleeve. 



DRIFTING. 



T. BUCHANAN READ. 




Y soul to-day 
Is far away, 
Sailing the Vesuvian Bay ; 
My winged boat, 
A bird afloat, 
Swims round the purple peaks remote 

Round purple peaks 

It sails, and seeks 
Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, 

Where high rocks throw, 

Through deeps below, 
A duplicated golden glow. 

Far, vague, and dim, 
The mountains swim ; 

While on Vesuvius' misty brim, 
With outstretched hands, 
The gray smoke stands 

O'erlooking the volcanic lands. 

Here Ischia smiles 

O'er liquid miles ; 
And yonder, bluest of the isles, 

Calm Capri waits, 

Her sapphire gates 
Beguiling to her bright estates. 

I heed not, if 

My rippling skiff 
Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff ;- 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Under the walls of Paradise. 

Under the walls 

Where swells and falls 
The bay's deep breast at intervals 

At peace I lie, 

Blown softly by, 
A cloud upon this liquid sky. 



The day, so mild, 

Is Heaven's own child, 
With earth and ocean reconciled ; — 

The airs I feel 

Around me steal 
Are murmuring to the murmuring keel. 

Over the rail 

My hand I trail 
Wichin the shadow of the sail, 

A joy intense, 

The cooling sense 
Glides down my drowsy indolence. 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Where summer sings and never dies, — 

O'erveiled with vines, 

She glows and shines 
Among her future oil and wines. 

Her children, hid 

The cliffs amid, 
Are gamboling with the gamboling kid ; 

Or down the walls, 

With tipsy calls, 
Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls. 

The fisher's child, 

With tresses wild, 
Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled, 

With glowing lips 

Sings as she skips, 
Or gazes at the far off ships. 

Yon deep bark goes 

Where traffic blows, 
From lands of sun to lands of snows ; — 

This happier one, t 

Its course is run 
From lands of snow to lands of aun. 



EUROPEAN GUIDES. 



211 



happy ship, 


No more, no more 


To rise and dip, 


The worldly shore 


With the blue crystal at your lip ! 


Upbraids me with its loud uproar ! 


happy crew, 


With dreamful eyes 


My heart with you 


My spirit lies 


Sails, and sails, and sings anew ! 


Under the walls of Paradise ! 



EUROPEAN GUIDES. 



S. C. CLEMENS. 



S^UEOPEAN guides know about enough English to tangle everything 
up so that a man can make neither head nor tail of it. They know 
their story by heart, — the history of every statue, painting, cathe- 
dral, or other wonder they show you. They know it and tell it 
as a parrot would, — and if you interrupt, and throw them off the 
track, they have to go back and begin over again. All their lives long they 
are employed in showing strange things to foreigners and listening to their 
bursts of admiration. 

It is human nature to take delight in exciting admiration. It is what 
prompts children to say " smart " things, and do absurd ones, and in other 
ways " show off" when company is present. It is what makes gossips turn 
out in rain and storm to go and be the first to tell a startling bit of news. 
Think, then, what a passion it becomes with a guide, whose privilege it is, 
every day, to show to strangers wonders that throw them into perfect 
ecstacies of admiration ! He gets so that he could not by any possibility 
live in a soberer atmosphere. 

After we discovered this, we never went into ecstacies any more, — we 
never admired anything, — we never showed any but impassible faces and 
stupid indifference in the face of the sublimest wonders a guide had to dis- 
play. We had found their weak point. We have made good use of it 
ever since. We have made some of those people savage, at times, but we, 
have never lost our serenity. 

The doctor asks the questions generally, because he can keep his 
countenance, and look more like an inspired idiot, and throw more imbe- 
cility into the tone of his voice than any man that lives. It comes natural 
to him. 

The guides in Genoa are delighted to secure an American party, 
because Americans so much wonder, and deal so much in sentiment and 
emotion before any relic of Columbus. Our guide there fidgeted about as 



212 EUROPEAN GUIDES. 



if he had swallowed a spring mattress. He was full of animation, — full of 
impatience. He said : — 

" Come wis me, genteelmen ! — come ! I show you ze letter writing 
by Christopher Colombo! — write it himself! — write it wis his own hand! 
— come I" 

He took us to the municipal palace. After much impressive fumbling 
of keys and opening of locks, the stained and aged document was spread 
before us. The guide's eyes sparkled. He danced about us and tapped 
the parchment with his finger : — 

What I tell you, genteelmen ! Is it not so ? See ! handwriting 
Christopher Colombo ! — write it himself!" 

We looked indifferent, — unconcerned. The doctor examined the docu- 
ment very deliberately, during a painful pause. Then he said, without any 
show of interest, — 

" Ah, — Ferguson, — what — what did you say was the name of the 
party who wrote this ?" 

" Christopher Colombo ! ze great Christopher Colombo !" 

Another deliberate examination. 

"Ah, — did he write it himself, or,— or how?" 

" He write it himself ! — Christopher Colombo ! he's own handwriting, 
write by himself!" 

Then the doctor laid the document down and said, — " Why, I have seen 
boys in America only fourteen years old that could write better than that." 

" But zis is ze great Christo— ■" 

" I don't care who it is ! It's the worst writing I ever saw. Now 
you mustn't think you can impose on us because we are strangers. We are 
not fools, by a good deal. If you have got any specimens of penmanship 
of real merit, trot them out! — and if you haven't, drive on !" 

We drove on. The guide was considerably shaken up, but he made 
one more venture. He had something which he thought would overcome 
us. He said, — 

" Ah, genteelmen, you come wis us ! I show you beautiful, oh, mag- 
nificent bust Christopher Colombo ! — splendid, grand, magnificent !" 

He brought us before the beautiful bust, — for it was beautiful, — and 
sprang back and struck an attitude : — 

" Ah, look, genteelmen ! — beautiful, grand, — bust Christopher Co- 
lombo ! — beautiful bust, beautiful pedestal !" 

The doctor put up his eye-glass, — procured for such occasions : — 

" Ah, — what did you say this gentleman's name was ?" 

" Christopher Colombo ! ze great Christopher Colombo I" 



EUROPEAN GUIDES. 213 



"Christopher Colombo, — the great Christopher Colombo. Well, what 

did he do r 

"Discover America! — discover America, oh, ze devil!" 

"Discover America? No, — that statement will hardly wash. We 
are just from America ourselves. We heard nothing about it. Christo- 
pher Colombo, — pleasant name, — is — is he dead ?" 

" Oh, corpo di Baccho ! — three hundred year !" 

"What did he die of?" 

" I do not know. I cannot tell." 

" Small-pox, think ?" 

" I do not know, genteelmen, — I do not know what he die of." 

" Measles, likely ?" 

" Maybe, — maybe. I do not know, — I think he die of something." 

" Parents living ?" 

" Im-posseeble ! 

" Ah, — which is the bust and which is the pedestal ?" 

" Santa Maria ! — zis ze bust ! — zis ze pedestal !" 

"Ah, I see, I see, — happy combination, — very happy combination 
indeed. Is — is this the first time this gentleman was ever on a bust ?" 

That joke was lost on the foreigner, — guides cannot master the sub- 
tleties of the American joke. 

We have made it interesting for this Koman guide. Yesterday 
we spent three or four hours in the Vatican again, that wonderful 
world of curiosities. We came very near expressing interest sometimes, 
even admiration. It was hard to keep from it. We succeeded, though. 
Nobody else ever did, in the Vatican museums. The guide was bewildered, 
nonplussed. He walked his legs off, nearly, hunting up extraordinary 
things, and exhausted all his ingenuity on us, but it was a failure ; we 
never showed any interest in anything. He had reserved what he con- 
sidered to be his greatest wonder till the last, — a royal Egyptian mummy, 
the best preserved in the world, perhaps. He took us there. He felt so 
sure, this time, that some of his old enthusiasm came back to him : — 

"See, genteelmen ! — Mummy ! Mummy !" 

The eye-glass came up as calmly, as deliberately as ever. 

" Ah, — Ferguson, — what did I understand you to say the gentleman's 
name was?" 

" Name ? — he got no name ! — mummy ! — 'Gyptian mummy!" 

" Yes, yes. Born here ?" 

" No. 'Gyptian mummy." 

"Ah, just so. Frenchman, I presume ?" 



214 



THANATOPSIS. 



Playing us 
Trying to 



"No! — not Frenchman, not Eoman! — born in Egypta !" 

" Born in Egypta. Never heard of Egypta before. Foreign locality, 
likely. Mummy, — mummy. How calm he is, how self-possessed ! Is — ■ 
ah ! — is he dead ?" 

" Oh, sacre bleu ! been dead three thousan' year !" 

The doctor turned on him savagely : — 

" Here, now, what do you mean by such conduct as this ? 
for Chinamen because we are strangers and trying to learn ! 
impose your vile, second-hand carcasses on us ! Thunder and lightning ! 
I've a mind to — to — if you've got a nice fresh corpse, fetch him out ! — or, 
by George, we'll brain you!" 

We make it exceedingly interesting for this Frenchman. However, 
he has paid us back, partly, without knowing it. He came to the hotel 
this morning to ask if we were up, and he endeavored, as well as he could 
to describe us, so that the landlord would know which persons he meant. 
He finished with the casual remark that we were lunatics. The observa- 
tion was so innocent and so honest that it amounted to a very good thing 
for a guide to say. 

Our Eoman Ferguson is the most patient, unsuspecting, long-suffering, 
subject we have had yet. We shall be sorry to part with him. We have 
enjoyed his society very much. We trust he has enjoyed ours, but we are 
harassed with doubts. 



THANATOPSIS. 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 



IHIiltB ^ m ' wno > i n the love of Nature, 
yijjM holds 

r Communion with her visible forms, 
she speaks 
A various language : for his gayer 
• * hours 

J She has a voice of gladness and a 

smile 
And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides 
Into his darker musings with a mild 
And gentle sympathy, that steals away 
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When 

thoughts 
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 
Over thy spirit, and sad images 



Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 
And breathless darkness, and the narrow 

house, 
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart, 
Go forth under the open sky and list 
To Nature's teachings, while from all 

around — 
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — 
Comes a still voice, — Yet a few days, and 

thee 
The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground, 
Where thy pale form was laid, with many 

tears, 
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 




" To him, who, in the love of Nature, holds 
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 
A various language." 



THANATOPSIS. 



215 



Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, 

shall claim 
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again ; 
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 
Thine individual being, shalt thou go 
To mix forever with the elements ; 
To be a brother to the insensible rock, 
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude 

swain 
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The 

oak 




THE VENERABLE WOODS. 

Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy 

mould. 
Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 
Shalt thou retire alone, — nor couldst thou 

wish 
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie 

down 
With patriarchs of the infant world, — with 



The powerful of the earth, — the wise, the 

good, 
Fair form? ind hoary seers of ages past, 
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills, 
Hock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun; the 

vales 
Stretching in Densive quietness between ; 
The venera'me woods ; rivers that move 
In majesty, ana the complaining brooks, 
That make the meadows green; and, poured 

round all, 
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — 



Are but the solemn decorations all 

Of the great tomb of man ! The golden 

sun, 
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, 
Are shining on the sad abodes of death, 
Through the still lapse of ages. All that 

tread 
The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings 
Of morning, traverse Barca's desert sands, 
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound 
Save his own dashings. — Yet the dead are 

there ! 
And millions in those solitudes, since first 
The flight of years began, have laid them 

down 
In their last sleep, — the dead reign there 

alone ! 
So shalt thou rest ; and what if thou with- 
draw 
In silence from the living, and no friend 
Take note of thy departure ? The gay will 

laugh 
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of 

care 
Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase 
His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall 

leave 
Their mirth and their employments, and shall 

come 
And make their bed with thee. As the long 

train 
Of ages glide away, the sons of men — 
The youth in life's green spring, and he who 

goes 
In the full strength of years, matron and 

maid, 
The bowed with age, the infant in the smiles 
And beauty of its innocent age cut off — 
Shall one by one, be gathered to thy side 
By those who in their turn shall follow 

them. 



So live that when thy summons comes to 

join 
The innumerable caravan that moves 
To the pale realms of shade, where each shall 

take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death. 



216 



THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED. 



Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, 
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and 
soothed 



By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 



THE GOUTY MERCHANT AND THE STRANGER. 



HORACE SMITH. 



IjKfiN Broad Street buildings (on a winter 
8m night), 

\f^f Snug by his parlor fire, a gouty wight 
dm Sat all alone, with one hand rubbing 
$ His feet rolled up in fleecy hose, 
J With t'other he'd beneath his nose 
The Public Ledger, in whose columns 
grubbing, 
He noted all the sales of hops, 
Ships, shops, and slops ; 
Gum, galls, and groceries ; ginger, gin, 
Tar, tallow, turmeric, turpentine, and tin ; 
When lo ! a decent personage in black, 
Entered and most politely said — 

" Your footman, sir, has gone his nightly 

track 
To the King's Head, 
And left your door ajar, which I 
Observed in passing by ; 
And thought it neighborly to give you 
notice." 
"Ten thousand thanks!" the gouty man 

replied ; 
" You see, good sir, how to my chair I'm 
tied ; — 



" Ten thousand thanks how very few do get, 
In time of danger, 

Such kind attention from a stranger ! 
Assuredly, that fellow's throat is 
Doomed to a final drop at Newgate ; 
He knows, too, (the unconscionable elf,) 
That there's no soul at home except my- 
self." 

"Indeed," replied the stranger (looking 
grave,) 

" Then he's a double knave: 
He knows that rogues and thieves by scores 
Nightly beset unguarded doors ; 
And see, how easily might one 

Of these domestic foes, 

Even beneath your very nose, 
Perform his knavish tricks: 
Enter your room as I have done, 
Blow out your candles — thus — and thus — 
Pocket your silver candlesticks : 

And — walk off — thus " — 
So said, so done ; he made no more remark. 

Nor waited for replies, 

But marched off with his prize, 
Leaving the gouty merchant in the dark. 



THE PAUPER'S DEATHBED. 



eflla 



MES. C. B. SOUTHEY. 




|READ softly, bow the head ; 
In reverent silence bow ; 
No passing bell doth toll, 
Yet an immortal soul 
Is passing now. 

Stranger ! however great, 
With lowly reverence bow 
There's one in that poor shed, 
One by that paltry bed, 
Greater than thou. 



Beneath that beggar's roof, 
Lo ! Death doth keep his state , 

Enter — no crowds attend ; 

Enter — no guards defend 
This palace gate. 

That pavement, damp and coict 

No smiling courtiers tread ; 
One silent woman stands, 
Lifting with meagre hands 
A dying head. 



MOUSE-HUNTING. 



217 



No mingling voices sound — 

An infant wail alone ; 
A sob suppressed — again 
That short, deep gasp, and then 

The parting groan. 

Oh, change ! — Oh, wondrous change 
Burst are the prison bars — 



This moment there, so low, 
So agonized, and now 
Beyond the stars ! 

Oh, change — stupendous change ! 

There lies the soulless clod ! 
The sun eternal breaks — 
The new immortal wakes — 

Wakes with his God ! 



MO USE-HUNTING. 



B. P. SHILLABER. 



^pT was midnight, deep and still, in the mansion of Mrs. Partington, — as 

|H| it was, very generally, about town, — on a cold night in March. So 

Mb profound was the silence that it awakened Mrs. P., and she raised 

f herself upon her elbow to listen. No sound greeted her ears, save 

i the tick of the old wooden clock in the next room, which stood there 

* in the dark, like an old crone, whispering and gibbering to itself. 

Mrs. Partington relapsed beneath the folds of the blankets, and had one 

eye again well-coaxed towards the realm of dreams, while the other was 

holding by a very frail tenure upon the world of reality, when her ear was 

saluted by the nibble of a mouse, directly beneath her chamber window, 

and the mouse was evidently gnawing her chamber carpet. 

Now, if there is an animal in the catalogue of creation that she dreads 
and detests, it is a mouse ; and she has a vague and indefinite idea that 
rats and mice were made with especial regard to her individual torment. 
As she heard the sound of the nibble by the window, she arose again upon 
her elbow, and cried " Shoo ! Shoo /" energetically, several times. The 
sound ceased, and she fondly fancied that her trouble was over. Again 
she laid herself away as carefully as she would have lain eggs at forty-five 
cents a dozen, when — nibble, nibble, nibble ! — she once more heard the 
odious sound by the window. " Shoo /" cried the old lady again, at the 
same time hurling her shoe at the spot from whence the sound proceeded, 
where the little midnight marauder was carrying on his depredations. 

A light burned upon the hearth — she couldn't sleep without a light, — 
and she strained her eyes in vain to catch a glimpse of her tormentor play- 
ing about amid the shadows of the room. All again was silent, and the 
clock, giving an admonitory tremble, struck twelve. Midnight! and Mrs. 
Partington counted the tintinabulous knots as they ran off the reel of Time, 
with a saddened heart. 



218 MOUSE-HUNTING. 



Nibble, nibble, nibble! — again that sound. The old lady sighed as she 
hurled the other shoe at her invisible annoyance. It was all without avail, 
and " shooing " was bootless, for the sound came again to her wakeful ear. 
At this point her patience gave out, and, conquering her dread of the cold, 
she arose and opened the door of her room that led to a corridor, when, 
taking the light in one hand, and a shoe in the other, she made the circuit 
of the room, and explored every nook and cranny in which a mouse could 
ensconse himself. She looked under the bed, and under the old chest of 
drawers, and under the wash-stand, and " shooed " until she could "shoo " 
no more. 

The reader's own imagination, if he has an imagination skilled in limning, 
must draw the picture of the old lady while upon this exploring expedition, 
" accoutred as she was/' in search of the ridiculous mouse. We have our 
own opinion upon the subject, and must say, — with all due deference to 
the years and virtues of Mrs. P., and with all regard for personal attrac- 
tions very striking in one of her years, — we should judge that she cut a 
very queer figure, indeed. 

Satisfying herself that the mouse must have left the room, she closed 
the door, deposited the light upon the hearth, and again sought repose. 
How gratefully a warm bed feels, when exposure to the night air has 
chilled us, as we crawl to its enfolding covert ! How we nestle down, like 
an infant by its mother's breast, and 'own no joy superior to that we feel, — 
coveting no regal luxury while revelling in the elysium of feathers ! So 
felt Mrs. P., as she again ensconsed herself in bed. The clock in the next 
room struck one. 

She was again near the attainment of the state when dreams are rife, 
when, close by her chamber-door, outside she heard that hateful nibble 
renewed which had marred her peace before. With a groan she arose, and, 
seizing her lamp, she opened the door, and had the satisfaction to hear the 
mouse drop, step by step, until he reached the floor below. Convinced that 
she was now rid of him for the night, she returned to bed, and ad- 
dressed herself to sleep. The room grew dim ; in the weariness of her 
spirit, the chest of drawers in the corner was fast losing its identity and 
becoming something else; in a moment more — nibble, nibble, nibble! again 
outside of the chamber-door, as the clock in the next room struck two. 

Anger,, disappointment, desperation, fired her mind with a new deter- 
mination. Once more she arose, but this time she put on a shoe ! — her 
dexter shoe. Ominous movement ! It is said that when a woman wets 
her finger, fleas had better flee. The star of that mouse's destiny was set- 
ting, and was now near the horizon. She opened the door quickly, and, 



DOING GOOD, TRUE HAPPINESS. 219 

as she listened a moment, she heard him drop again from stair to stair, on 
a speedy passage down. 

The entry below was closely secured, and no door was open to admit 
of his escape. This she knew, and a triumphant gleam shot athwart her 
features, revealed by the rays of the lamp. She went slowly down the 
stairs, until she arrived at the floor below, where, snugly in a corner, with 
his little bead-like black eyes looking up at her roguishly, was the gnawer of 
her carpet, and the annoyer of her comfort. She moved towards him, and 
he not coveting the closer acquaintance, darted by her. She pursued him to 
the other end of the entry, and again he passed by her. Again and again she 
pursued him, with no better success. At last, when in most doubt as to which 
side would conquer, Fortune perched upon the banister, turned the scale in 
favor of Mrs. P. The mouse, in an attempt to run by her, presumed too 
much upon former success. He came too near her upraised foot. It fell 
upon his musipilar beauties, like an avalanche of snow upon a new tile, 
and he was dead forever ! Mrs. Partington gazed upon him as he lay 
before her. Though she was glad at the result, she could but sigh at 
the necessity which impelled the violence; but for which the mouse might 
have long continued a blessing to the society in which he moved. 

Slowly and sadly she marched up stairs, 

With her shoe all sullied and gory ; 
And the watch, who saw't through the front door squares, 

Told us this part of the story. 

That mouse did not trouble Mrs. Partington again that night, and the- 
old clock in the next room struck three before sleep again visited the eye- 
lids of the relict of Corporal Paul. 



DOING GOOD, TRUE HAPPINESS. 




CARLOS WILCOX. 



)ULDST thou from sorrow find a 
IKflail sweet relief ? 

Or is thy heart oppress' d with 
woes untold ? 
Balm wouldst thou gather from 
corroding grief' 7 
Pour blessings round thee like a 
shower of gold. 
'Tis when the rose is wrapp'd in many a fold 



Close to its heart, the worm is wasting there 
Its life and beauty ; not when, all un- 
roll'd, 
Leaf after leaf, its bosom, rich and fair, 
Breathes freely its perfumes throughout the 
ambient air. 

Wake, thou that sleepest in enchanted 
bowers, 



220 



TO THE SILENT RIVER. 



Lest these lost years should haunt thee on 
the night 
When death is waiting for thy number'd hours 
To take their swift and everlasting flight ; 
Wake, ere the earth-born charm unnerve 
thee quite, 
And be thy thoughts to work divine address'd ; 
Do something — do it soon — with all thy 
might ; 
An angel's wing would droop if long at rest, 
And God himself, inactive, were no longer 
blest. 

Some high or humble enterprise of good 

Contemplate, till it shall possess thy mind, 
Become thy study, pastime, rest, and food, 
And kindle in thy heart a flame refined. 
Pray Heaven for firmness thy whole soul 
to bind 
To this thy purpose — to begin, pursue, 

With thoughts all fix'd, and feelings purely 
kind ; 
Strength to complete, and with delight review, 
And grace to give the praise where all is ever 
due. 

No good of worth sublime will Heaven permit 

To light on man as from the passing air ; 
'The lamp of genius, though by nature lit, 
If not protected, pruned, and fed with care, 
Soon dies, or runs to waste with fitful 
glare ; 
And learning is a plant that spreads and towers 

Slow as Columbia's aloe, proudly rare, 
That 'mid gay thousands, with the suns and 

showers 
Of half a century, grows alone before it 
flowers. 



Has immortality of name been given 

To them that idly worship hills and groves, 
And burn sweet incense to the queen of hea- 
ven? 
Did Newton learn from fancy, as it roves, 
To measure worlds, and follow where each 
moves ? 
Did Howard gain renown that shall not cease, 
By wanderings wild that nature's pilgrim 
loves ? 
Or did Paul gain heaven's glory and its peace 
By musing o'er the bright and tranquil isles 
of Greece? 

Beware lest thou, from sloth, that would ap- 
pear 
But lowliness of mind, with joy proclaim 
Thy want of worth, — a charge thou couldst 
not hear 
From other lips, without a blush of shame, 
Or pride indignant ; then be thine the 
blame, 
And make thyself of worth ; and thus enlist 
The smiles of all the good, the dear to fame ; 
'Tis infamy to die and not be miss'd, 
Or let all soon forget that thou didst e'er exist. 

Rouse to some work of high and holy love, 
And thou an angel's happiness shalt know ; 

Shalt bless the earth while in the world above ; 
The good begun by thee shall onward flow 
In many a branching stream, and wider 
grow ; 

The seed that, in these few and fleeting hours, 
Thy hand, unsparing and unwearied, sow 

Shall deck thy grave with amaranthine flow'rs, 

And yield thee fruits divine in heaven's 
immortal bowers. 



TO THE SILENT RIVER. 



H. W. LONGFELLOW. 




IVER that in silence windest 



ijtfjfg Through the meadows bright and 
free, 
"Till at length thy rest thou findest 
I In the bosom of the sea ! 



Four long years of mingled feeling. 
Half in rest, and half in strife, 

I have seen thy waters stealing 
Onward, like the stream of life. 



TO THE SILENT RIVER. 



221 




Thou hast taught me, Silent River ! 

Many a lesson deep and long ; 
Thou hast been a generous giver ; 

I can give thee but a song. 



Oft in sadness, and in illness 

I have watched thy current glide, 

Till the beauty of its stillness 
Overflowed me, like a tide. 



222 



SONG OF THE BROOK. 



And in bitter hours and brighter, 
When I saw thy waters gleam, 

I have felt my heart beat lighter, 
And leap forward with thy stream. 

Not for this alone I love thee, 
Nor because thy waves of blue 

From celestial seas above thee 
Take their own celestial hue. 

Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee, 
And thy waters disappear, 



Friends I love have dwelt beside thee. 
And have made thy margin dear. 

Friends my soul with joy remembers ! 

How like quivering flames they start, 
When I fan the living embers 

On the hearth-stone of my heart ! 

'Tis for this, then, Silent River ! 

That my spirit leans to thee ; 
Thou hast been a generous giver, 

Take this idle song from me. 




SONG OF THE BROOK 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 



COME from haunts of coot and hern 

I make a sudden sally 
And sparkle out among the fern, 
To bicker down a valley. 

! '. By thirty hills I hurry down, 
Or slip between the ridges, 
By twenty thorps, a little town, 
And half a hundred bridges. 

Till last by Philip's farm I flow 
To join the brimming river, 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on forever. 

I chatter over stony ways, 
In little sharps and trebles, 

I bubble into eddying 
I babble on the 



With many a curve my banks I fret 
By many a field and fallow, 

And many a fairy foreland set 
With willow-weed and mallow. 

I chatter, chatter, as I flow 
To join the brimming river ; 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on forever. 

I wind about, and in and out, 
With here a blossom sailing, 

And here and there a lusty trout, 
And here and there a grayling, 

And here and there a foamy flake 

Upon me, as I travel 
With many a silvery waterbieak 

Above the golden gravel, 



CAUGHT IN THE QUICKSAND. 



223 



And draw them all along, and flow 


I make the netted sunbeam dance 


To join the brimming river, 


Against my sandy shallows. 


For men may come and men may go, 




But I go on forever. 


I murmur under moon and stars 




In brambly wildernesses ; 


I steal by lawns and grassy plots ; 


I linger by my shingly bars ; 


I slide by hazel covers ; 


I loiter round my cresses ; 


I love the sweet forget-me-nots 




That grow for happy lovers. 


And out again I curve and flow 




To join the brimming river, 


I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, 


For men may come and men may go, 


Among my skimming swallows ; 


But I go on forever. 



CAUGHT IN THE QUICKSAND. 



VICTOR HUGO. 



jT sometimes happens that a man, traveler or fisherman, walking on 
the beach at low tide, far from the bank, suddenly notices that for 
several minutes he has been walking with some difficulty. The 
strand beneath his feet is like pitch ; his soles stick in it ; it is sand 
4; no longer ; it is glue. 

eJ The beach is perfectly dry, but at every step he takes, as soon 

as he lifts his foot, the print which it leaves fills with water. The eye, 
however, has noticed no change ; the immense strand is smooth and tran- 
quil; all the sand has the same appearance; nothing distinguishes the 
surface which is solid from that which is no longer so; the joyous little 
crowd of sand-flies continue to leap tumultuously over the wayfarer's feet. 
The man pursues his way, goes forward, inclines to the land, endeavors to 
get nearer the upland. 

He is not anxious. Anxious about what ? Only he feels, somehow, as 
if the weight of his feet increases with every step he takes. Suddenly he 
sinks in. 

He sinks in two or three inches. Decidedly he is not on the right 
road ; he stops to take his bearings ; now he looks at his feet. They have 
disappeared. The sand covers them. He draws them out of the sand ; 
he will retrace his steps. He turns back, he sinks in deeper. The sand 
comes up to his ankles ; he pulls himself out and throws himself to the 
left — the sand half leg deep. He throws himself to the right ; the sand 
comes up to his shins. Then he recognizes with unspeakable terror that 
he is caught in the quicksand, anci that he has beneath him the terrible 



224 



THE ORIENT. 



medium in which man can no more walk than the fish can swim. He 
throws off his load if he has one, lightens himself as a ship in distress ; it is 
already too late ; the sand is above his knees. He calls, he waves his hat 
or his handkerchief ; the sand gains on him more and more. If the beach 
is deserted, if the land is too far off, if there is no help in sight, it is all over. 

He is condemned to that appalling burial, long, infallible, implacable, 
and impossible to slacken or to hasten ; which endures for hours, which 
seizes you erect, free, and in full health, and which draws you by the feet ; 
which, at every effort that you attempt, at every shout you utter, drags 
you a little deeper, sinking you slowly into the earth while you look upon 
the horizon, the sails of the ships upon the sea, the birds flying and singing, 
the sunshine and the sky. The victim attempts to sit down, to lie down, 
to creep ; every movement he makes inters him ; he straightens up, he sinks 
in ; he feels that he is being swallowed. He howls, implores, cries to the 
clouds, despairs. 

Behold him waist deep in the sand. The sand reaches his breast ; he 
is now only a bust. He raises his arms, utters furious groans, clutches the 
beach with his nails, would hold by that straw, leans upon his elbows to 
pull himself out of this soft sheath ; sobs frenziedly ; the sand rises ; the 
sand reaches his shoulders ; the sand reaches his neck ; the face alone is 
visible now. The mouth cries, the sand fills it — silence. The eyes still 
gaze, the sand shuts them — night. Now the forehead decreases, a little 
hair flutters above the sand ; a hand comes to the surface of the beach, 
moves, and shakes, disappears. It is the earth-drowning man. The earth 
filled with the ocean becomes a trap. It presents itself like a plain, and 
opens like a wave. 



THE ORIENT. 



FROM BYRON S BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 




fH$|NOW ye the land where the cypress 
and myrtle 
Are emblems of deeds that are done 
in their clime, 
Where the rage of the vulture, the 
love of the turtle, 
Now melt into sorrow, now madden 
to crime ? 
Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, 
Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams 
ever shine : 



Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppressed 

with perfume, 
Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her 

bloom ! 
Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, 
And the voice of the nightingale never is 

mute. 
Where tints of the earth, and the hues of the 

sky, 
In color though varied, in beauty may vie, 
And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye ; 



THE MORAVIAN REQUIEM. 



225 



"Where the virgins are soft as the roses they 


Can he smile on such deeds as his children 


twine, 


have done ? 


And all, save the spirit of man, is divine ? 


0, wild as the accents of lover's farewell 


'T is the clime of the East ; 't is the land of 


Are the hearts which they bear and the tales 


the Sun, — 


which they tell ! 



ABO U BEN ADHEM. 




LEIGH HUNT. 



D B0U Ben Adhem, — may his tribe in- 
crease, — 
Awoke one night from a sweet 

dream of peace, 
And saw, within the moonlight in 
his room, 
Making it rich, and like a lily in 
bloom, 
An angel, writing in a book of gold. 
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem 

bold, 
And to the Presence in the room he said, 
" What writest thou ?" The vision raised its 

head, 
And with a look made all of sweet accord, 



Answered, " The names of those who love 

the Lord." 
" And is mine one ?" said Abou. " Nay, not 

so," 
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low, 
But cheerily still ; and said, " I pray thee, 

then, 
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." 

The angel wrote and vanished. The next 

night 
It came again, with a great wakening light, 
And showed the names whom love of God 

had bless'd ; 
And lo ! Ben Adhem's name led all th? r^st, 



THE MORA VI AN REQ UIEM. 



HARRIET B. M KEEVER. 



It is customary with the Moravians at Bethlehem, Pa., to announce the decease of a member of their com- 
munion, from the tower of the church adjoining the cemetery, by three appropriate strains of melody rendered 
by a trombone band. The closing strains designate the age and sex of the departed one. I heard it for the first 
time at sunset, in the cemetery, unexpectedly ; the effect was indescribable ; the custom is beautiful, sweetly ex- 
pressive of loving brotherhood. 




T twilight hour, when mem'ry's power 



Wakes up the visions of the buried 
past, 
From earth retreating, soft silence 

greeting, 
I wandered, where the weary rest 

at last. 
15 



The sun retiring, sad thoughts inspiring, 

I mused in solemn silence 'mid the 
dead; 
When softly stealing, death's call reveal- 
ing. 
Sounds of low wailing from the tower 
were sped. 



226 



THE MISER. 



First faintly swelling, the tidings telling, 
In notes of tenderest sorrow, one has gone 




We've lost another, a youthful brother ; 
Mourn for a home bereft, a spirit flown. 



The'' notes of anguish first seem to lan- 
guish, 
Like to the moaning of a parting sigh ; 
Then raptured swelling, a tale they're tell- 
ing. 
Of triumph over death, of victory. 

" Farewell to sorrow ! I'll wake to-morrow, 
When the long slumber of the tomb is 
o'er ; 
Then rising glorious, o'er death victorious, 
We'll meet, we'll meet, where partings are 
no more." 

Thus wails the trombone, and as its soft 
tone 
Breathes a sad requiem for death's fre- 
quent calls, 
'Tis sweet to render this tribute tender, 

Whene'er a brother from among us 
falls. 



THE MISER. 




GEOEGE W. CUTTER. 



>N old man sat by a tireless hearth, 
Though the night was dark and 
chill, 
And mournfully over the frozen 
earth 
The wind sobbed loud and shrill. 
His locks were gray, and his eyes were 
gray, 
And dim, but not with tears ; 
And his skeleton form had wasted away 
With penury, more than years. 

A rush-light was casting its fitful glare 

O'er the damp and dingy walls, 
Where the lizard hath made his slimy lair, 

And the venomous spider crawls ; 
But the meanest thing in this lonesome room 

Was the miser worn and bare, 
Where he sat like a ghost in an empty tomb, 

On his broken and only chair. 



He had bolted the window and barred the 
door, 

And every nook had scanned ; 
And felt the fastening o'er and o'er. 

With his cold and skinny hand ; 
And yet he sat gazing intently round, 

And trembled with silent fear, 
And started and shuddered at every sound 

That fell on his coward ear. 

"Ha, ha !" laughed the miser: " I'm safe at 
last 

From this night so cold and drear, 
From the drenching rain and driving 
blast, 

With my gold and treasures here. 
I am cold and wet with the icy rain, 

And my health is bad, 'tis true ; 
Yet if I should light that fire again, 

It would cost me a cent or two. 



THE ORDER OF NOBILITY. 



227 



" But I'll take a sip of the precious wine : 


He turned to an old worm-eaten chest, 


It will banish my cold and fears : 


And cautiously raised the lid, 


It was given long since by a friend of mine — 


And then it shone like the clouds of the 


I have kept it for many years." 


west, 


So he drew a flask from a mouldy nook, 


With the sun in their splendor hid : 


And drank of its ruby tide ; 


And gem after gem, in precious store, 


And his eyes grew bright with each draught 


Are raised with exulting smile ; 


he took, 


And he counted and counted them o'er and 


And his bosom swelled with pride. 


o'er, 




In many a glittering pile. 


*' Let me see ; let me see !" said the miser 




then, 


Why comes the flush to his pallid brow, 


" 'Tis some sixty years or more 


While his eyes like his diamonds shine ? 


Since the happy hour when I began 


Why writhes he thus in such torture 


To heap up the glittering store ; 


now? 


And well have I sped with my anxious toil, 


What was there in the wine ? 


As my crowded chest will show : 


He strove his lonely seat to gain : 


I've more than would ransom a kingdom's 


To crawl to his nest he tried ; 


spoil, 


But finding his efforts all in vain, 


Or an emperor could bestow." 


He clasped his gold, and — died. 



THE POOR INDIAN! 



KNOW him by his falcon eye, 

His raven tress and mien of pride ; 

Those dingy draperies, as they fly, 
Tell that a great soul throbs inside ! 

^ No eagle-feathered crown he wears, 
1 Capping in pride his kingly brow ; 
* But his crownlesss hat in grief de- 
clares, 
11 1 am an unthroned monarch now !" 

1 noble son of a royal line !" 
I exclaim, as I gaze into his face, 



" How shall I knit my soul to thine ? 

How right the wrongs of thine injured race ? 

" What shall I do for thee, glorious one ? 

To soothe thy sorrows my soul aspires. 
Speak ! and say how the Saxon's son 

May atone for the wrongs of his ruthless 
sires !" 

He speaks, he speaks ! — that noble chief ! 

Erom his marble lips deep accents come ; 
And I catch the sound of his mighty grief, — 

" Pie gi' me tree cent for git some rumf 



THE ORDER OF NOBILITY. 




EDMUND BURKE. 



be honored and even privileged by the laws, opinions, and in- 
veterate usages of our country, growing out of the prejudice of 
* ages, has nothing to provoke horror and indignation in any man. 
Even to be top tenacious of those privileges is not absolutely a 
crime. The strong struggle in every individual to preserve posses- 
sion of what he has found to belong to him, and to distinguish him, is 



228 



THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER. 



one of the securities against injustice and des- 
potism implanted in our nature. It operates as 
an instinct to secure property, and to preserve 
communities in a settled state. What is there 
to shock in this? Nobility is a graceful orna- 
ment to the civil order. It is the Corinthian 
capital of polished society. Omnes boni nobili- 
tati semper favemus, was the saying of a wise 
and good man. It is, indeed, one sign of a 
liberal and benevolent mind to incline to it with 
some sort of partial propensity. He feels no 
ennobling principle in his own heart who wishes 
to level all the artificial institutions which have 
been adopted for giving a body to opinion and 
permanence to fugitive esteem. It is a sour, 
malignant, and envious disposition, without taste 
for the reality, or for any image or representa- 
tion of virtue, that sees with joy the unmerited 

fall of what had long flourished in splendor and in honor. I do not like 
to see anything destroyed, any void produced in society, any ruin on the 
face of the land. 




THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER. 



GEORGE CANNING. 




FRIEND OF HUMANITY. 



jjjijIjfEEDY knife-grinder ! whither are 



you going < 
Rough is the road; your wheel is 

out of order. 
Bleak blows the blast; — your hat 
has got a hole in' t; 
So have your breeches ! 



Weary knife-grinder ! little think the proud 
ones, 

Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike- 
road, 

What hard work 't is crying all day " Knives 
and 
Scissors to grind !" 



Tell me, knife-grinder, how came you to 

grind knives ? 
Did some rich man tyrannically use you ? 
Was it the squire ? or parson of the parish ? 
Or the attorney? 

Was it the squire for killing of his game ? or 
Covetous parson for his tithes distraining ? 
Or roguish lawyer made you lose your little 
All in a lawsuit ? 

(Have you not read the Rights of Man, by 

Tom Paine ?) 
Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids, 
Ready to fall as soon as you have told your 

Pitiful story. 



MOTHERHOOD. 



229 



KNTFE-G-RINDER. 

Story ! God bless you ! I have none to tell, sir ; 
Only, last night, a-drinking at the Chequers, 
This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, 
were 
Torn in a scuffle. 

Constables came up for to take me into 
Custody ; they took me before the justice ; 
Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish-stocks 
For a vagrant. 

I should be glad to drink your honor's health 



A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence ; 
But for my part, I never love to meddle 
With politics, sir. 

. FRIEND OF HUMANITY. 

I give thee sixpence ! I will see thee dead 

first, — 
Wretch ! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse 

to vengeance, — 
Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded, 

Spiritless outcast ! 
[Kicks the knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, 
and exit in a transport of republican enthu- 
siasm and universal philanthropy .] 



TWO LITTLE KITTENS. 




WO little kittens, one stormy night, 
Began to quarrel and then to fight; 
One h*d a mouse, the other had none, 
And that was the way the quarrel 



" J7Z have that mouse," said the biggest 
cat. 




You'll have that mouse, we'll see about 
that." 



" I will have that mouse," said the eldest 

son. 
" You shan't have that mouse," said the little 

one. 

I told you before 'twas a stormy night 
When these two little kittens began to fight ; 
The old woman seized her sweeping-broom 
And swept the two kittens right out of the 
room. 

The ground was covered with frost and snow, 
And the two little kittens had nowhere to go, 
So they laid them down on the mat at the 

door, 
While the old woman .finished sweeping the 

floor. 

Then they both crept in, as quiet as mice, 

All wet with snow and cold as ice ; 

For they found it was better, that stormy 

night, 
To lie down and sleep, than to quarrel and 

fight. 



MOTHERHOOD. 




Y neighbor's house is not so high 
Nor half so nice as mine ; 
I often see the blind ajar, 

And tho' the curtain's fine, 



'Tis only muslin, and the steps 
Are not of stone at all, 

And yet I long for her small home 
To give mine all in all. 



230 



THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS. 



Her lawn is never left to grow, 

The children tread it down, 
And when the father comes at night 

I hear them clatter down 
The gravel walk — and such a noise, 

Comes to my listening ears, 
As my sad heart's been waiting for 

So many silent years. 

Sometimes I peep to see them 

Seize his coat, and hand, and knees, 

All three so eager to be first, 
And hear her call, " Don't teaze, 



Papa !" the baby springs — 
And then the low brown door 

Shuts in their happiness — and I 
Sit wishing as before. 

That my neighbor's little cottage, 

And the jewels of her crown 
Had been my own — my mansion 

With its front of freestone brown, 
Its damask, and its Honiton, 

Its lawn so green and bright, 
How gladly would I give them, 

For her motherhood, to-night. 



TRUST. 



JOHN G. WHITTIER. 




g|ig PICTURE memory brings to me : 
HHi ^ ^ 00 k across the years and see 
Myself beside my mother's knee. 

I feel her gentle hand restrain 
My selfish moods, and know again 
A child's blind sense of wrong and pain. 

But wiser now, a man gray grown, 

My childhood's needs are better known, 

My mother's chastening love I own. 

Gray grown, but in our Father's sight 
A child still groping for the light 
To read his works and ways aright. 

I bow myself beneath his hand ; 
That pain itself for good was planned, 
I trust, but cannot understand. 



I fondly dream it needs must be, 
That as my mother dealt with me, 
So with His children dealeth He. 




BIBTH-PLACE OF WHITTIEE. 

I wait, and trust the end will prove 
That here and there, below, above, 
The chastening heals, the pain is love ! 



THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS. 



FELICIA HEMANS. 



PK||]pWO barks met on the deep mid- 
MMk When calms had stilled the 



-sea, 
the tide ; 

A few bright days of summer glee 
There found them side by side. 



And voices of the fair and brave 
Rose mingling thence in mirth ; 



And sweetly floated o'er the wave 
The melodies of earth. 

Moonlight on that lone Indian main 
Cloudless and lovely slept ; 

While dancing step and festive strain 
Each deck in triumph swept. 



BURKE ON THE DEATH OF HIS SON. 



231 



And hands were linked, and answering eyes 

"With kindly meaning shone ; 
0, brief and passing sympathies, 

Like leaves together blown ! 

A little while such joy was cast 

Over the deep's repose, 
Till the loud singing winds at last 

Like trumpet music rose. 



And proudly, freely on their way 
The parting vessels bore ; 

In calm or storm, by rock or bay, 
To meet — 0, nevermore ! 

Never to blend in victory's cheer, 

To aid in hours of woe ; 
And thus bright spirits mingle here, 

Such ties are formed below. 



BURKE ON THE DEATH OF HIS SON. 



r oCpo . 

Sl^iAD it pleased God to continue to me the hopes of succession, I 
§|§|1 should have been, according to my mediocrity, and the mediocrity 
*^*y* of the age I live in, a sort of founder of a family ; I should have 
| J left a son, who, in all the points in which personal merit can be 
viewed, in science, in erudition, in genius, in taste, in honor, in 
generosity, in humanity, in every liberal sentiment, and every liberal 
accomplishment, would not have shown himself inferior to the Duke of 
Bedford, or to any of those whom he traces in his line. His Grace very 
soon would have wanted all plausibility in his attack upon that provision 
which belonged more to mine than to me. He would soon have supplied 
every deficiency, and symmetrized every disproportion. It would not 
have been for that successor to resort to any stagnant wasting reservoir of 
merit in me, or in any ancestry. He had in himself a salient living spring 
of generous and manly action. Every day he lived, he would have pur- 
chased the bounty of the crown, and ten times more, if ten times more he 
had received. He was made a public creature, and had no enjoyment 
whatever but in the performance of some duty. At this exigent moment 
the loss of a finished man is not easily supplied. 

But a Disposer, whose power we are little able to resist, and whose wis- 
dom it behooves us not at all to dispute, has ordained it in another manner, 
and — whatever my querulous weakness might suggest — a far better. The 
storm has gone over me, and I lie like one of those oaks which the late 
hurricane has scattered about me. I am stripped of all my honors ; I am 
torn up by the roots, and lie prostrate on the earth ! There, and prostrate 
there, I most unfeignedly recognize the divine justice, and in some degree 
submit to it. But whilst I humble myself before God, I do not know that 
it is forbidden to repel the attacks of unjust and inconsiderate men. The 
patience of Job is proverbial. After some of the convulsive struggles of 



232 ™ E DOVE-COTE. 



our irritable nature, he submitted himself, and repented in dust and ashes. 
But even so, I do not find him blamed for reprehending, and with a con- 
siderable degree of verbal asperity, those ill-natured neighbors of his who 
visited his dung-hill to read moral, political, and economical lectures on his 
misery. I am alone. I have none to meet my enemies in the gate. In- 
deed, my lord, I greatly deceive myself, if in this hard season I would give 
a peck of refuse wheat for all that is called fame and honor in the world. 
This is the appetite but of a few. It is a luxury, it is a privilege ; it is 
an indulgence for those who are at their ease. But we are all of us made 
to shun disgrace, as we are made to shrink from pain, and poverty, and 
disease. It is an instinct : and under the direction of reason, instinct is 
always in the right. I live in an inverted order. They who ought to 
have succeeded me are gone before me ; they who should have been to me 
as posterity, are in the place of ancestors. I owe to the dearest relation — 
which ever must subsist in memory — that act of piety which he would 
have performed to me ; I owe it to him to show, that he was not de- 
scended, as the Duke of Bedford would have it, from an unworthy parent. 



MILTON. 



T. B. MACAULAY. 




|0 Milton, and to Milton alone, belonged the secrets of the great 
deep, the beach of sulphur, the ocean of fire; the palaces of the 
fallen dominations, glimmering through the everlasting shade, the 
silent wilderness of verdure and fragrance where armed angels 
kept watch over the sleep of the first lovers, the portico of dia- 
mond, the sea of jasper, the sapphire pavement empurpled with 

celestial roses, and the infinite ranks of the Cherubim, blazing with 

adamant and gold. 



THE DOVE-COTE. 



. AUNT EFFIE S RHYMES. 



TjjjpERY high in the dove-cote 
The little Turtle Dove 
Made a pretty nursery 

To please her little love. 

She was gentle, she was soft 

And her large dark eye 




Often turned to her mate, 
Who was sitting close by. 



Coo," said the Turtle Dove, 
" Coo." said she, 



THE MYSTERY OF LIFE IN CHRIST. 



233 



" Oh, I love thee," skid the Turtle Dove, 


'Neath the long shady branches 


"And I love thee." 


• 


Of the dark pine tree, 






How happy were the doves 






In their little nursery ! 
The young Turtle Doves 




Never quarreled in their nest ; 


JBIte fpBB Pisspg' 


s» 


For they dearly loved each other, 




1]ll 


Though they loved their mother best. 






" Coo," said the Turtle Doves, 

" Coo," said she, 
And they played together kindly 


*& 




In their little nursery. 






Is this nursery of yours, 




Little sister, little brother, 


, =^^^^^^^^^?^iriifrPSii 




Like the Turtle Dove's nest ? — 




p 


Do you love one another ? 
Are you kind, are you gentle, 


i^W 




As children ought to be ? 
Then the happiest of nests 


|" Ifc-'l" 




Is your own nursery. 



PATRIOTISM. 




SIR WALTER SCOTT. 



t 



REATHES there the man with soul so 
dead 
Who never to himself hath said, 

This is my own, my native land ! 

Whose heart hath ne'er within him 

burned, 

As home his footsteps he hath turned 

From wandering on a foreign strand ! 

If such there breathe, go, mark him well ; 



For him no minstrel raptures swell ; 
High though his titles, proud his name, 
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim, 
Despite those titles, power, and pelf, 
The wretch, concentred all in self, 
Living shall forfeit fair renown, 
And, doubly dying, shall go down 
To the vile dust from whence he sprung, 
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. 



THE MYSTERY OF LIFE IN CHRIST 



MRS. E. PRENTISS. 



flSHg WALK along the crowded streets, and 

fSk The eager, anxious, troubled faces ; 

4im Wondering what this man seeks, what 

* that heart craves, 

J In earthly places. 



Do I want anything that they are want- 
ing? 
Is each of them my brother ? 
Could we hold fellowship, speak heart to 
heart, 
Each to the other ? 



234 



SCENE AT NIAGARA FALLS. 



STay, but I know not ! only this I know, 


And in the awful loneliness of crowds 


That sometimes merely crossing 


I am not lonely. 


Another's path, where life's tumultuous 




waves 


Ah, what a life is theirs who live in Christ ; 


Are ever tossing, 


How vast the mystery ! 




Reaching in height to heaven, and in its 


le, as He passes, whispers in mine ear 


depth 


One magic sentence only, 


The unfathomed sea. 



ROLL ON THOU SUN. 



ANONYMOUS. 



Ma. 




OLL on, thou Sun, forever roll, 
|ijl| Thou giant, rushing through the 
heaven! 
Creation's wonder, nature's soul, 
Thy golden wheels by angels 
driven ! 
The planets die without thy blaze, 
And cherubim, with star-dropt wing, 
Float in thy diamond-sparkling rays, 
Thou brightest emblem of their king ! 

Roll, lovely Earth, and still roll on, 

With ocean's azure beauty bound ; 
While one sweet star, the pearly moon, 

Pursues thee through the blue profound ; 
And angels, with delighted eyes, 

Behold thy tints of mount and stream, 
From the high walls of Paradise, 

Swift wheeling like a glorious dream. 



Roll, Planets ! on your dazzling road, 

Forever sweeping round the sun ! 
What eye beheld when first ye glowed ? 

What eye shall see your courses done ? 
Roll in your solemn majesty, 

Ye deathless splendors of the skies ! 
High altars, from which angels see 

The incense of creation rise. 



Roll, Comets ! and ye million Stars ! 

Ye that through boundless nature roam ; 
Ye monarchs on your flame-wing cars ; 

Tell us in what more glorious dome, — 
What orbs to which your pomps are dim, 

What kingdom but by angels trod, — 
Tell us where swells the eternal hymn 

Around His throne where dwells your 
God? 






SCENE AT NLAGARA FALLS. 



CHARLES TARSON. 



T is summer. A party of visitors are just crossing the iron bridge that 
extends from the American shore to Goat's Island, about a quarter 
of a mile above the Falls. Just as they are about to leave, while 
watching the stream as it plunges and dashes among the rocks 
below, the eye of one fastens on something clinging to a rock — 
caught on the very verge of the Falls. Scarcely willing to believe his 



SCENE AT NIAGARA FALLS. 235 

own vision, he directs the attention of his companions. The terrible news 
spreads like lightning, and in a few minutes the bridge and the surround- 
ing shores are covered with thousands of spectators. " Who is he ?" " How 
did he get there ?" are questions every person proposed, but answered by 
none. No voice is heard above the awful flood, but a spy-glass shows 
frequent efforts to speak to the gathering multitude. Such silent appeals 
exceed the eloquence of words ; they are irresistible, and something must 
be done. A small boat is soon upon the bridge, and with a rope attached 
sets out upon its fearless voyage, but is instantly sunk. Another and 
another are tried, but they are all swallowed up by the angry waters. A 
large one might possibly survive; but none is at hand. Away to Buffalo 
a car is dispatched, and never did the iron horse thunder along its steel- 
bound track on such a godlike mission. Soon the most competent life-boat 
is upon the spot. All eyes are fixed upon the object, as trembling and 
tossing amid the boiling white waves it survives the roughest waters. 
One breaker past and it will have reached the object of its mission. But 
being partly filled with water and striking a sunken rock, that next wave 
sends it hurling to the bottom. An involuntary groan passes through the 
dense multitude, and hope scarcely nestles in a single bosom. The sun 
goes down in gloom, and as darkness comes on and the crowd begins to * 
scatter, methinks the angels looking over the battlements on high drop a 
tear of pity on the scene. The silvery stars shine dimly through the cur- 
tain of blue. The multitude are gone, and the sufferer is left with his God. 
Long before morning he must be swept over that dreadful abyss ; he clings 
to that rock with all the tenacity of life, and as he surveys the horrors of 
his position, strange visions in the air come looming up before him. He 
sees his home, his wife and children there ; he sees the home of his child- 
hood; he sees that mother as she used to soothe his childish fears upon 
her breast ; he sees a watery grave, and then the vision closes in tears. 
In imagination he hears the hideous yells of demons, and mingled prayers 
and curses die upon his lips. 

No sooner does morning dawn than the multitude again rush to the 
scene of horror. Soon a shout is heard : he is there — he is still alive ! 
Just now a carriage arrives upon the bridge, and a woman leaps from it 
and rushes to the most favorable point of observation. She had driven 
from Chippewa, three miles above the Falls; her husband had crossed 
the river, night before last, and had not returned, and she fears he may be 
clinging to that rock. All eyes are turned for a moment toward the 
anxious woman, and no sooner is a glass handed to her, fixed upon the 
object than she shrieks, " Oh, my husband!" and sinks senseless to the 



236 



THE SOLDIER'S PARDON. 



earth." The excitement, before intense, seems now almost unendurable, 
and something must again be tried. A small raft is constructed, and, to 
the surprise of all, swings up beside the rock to which the sufferer has 
clung for the last forty- eight hours. He instantly throws himself full 
length upon it. Thousands are pulling at the end of the rope, and with 
skillful management a few rods are gained toward the nearest shore. What 
tongue can tell, what pencil can paint, the anxiety with which that little 
bark is watched, as, trembling and tossing amid the roughest waters, it 
nears that rock-bound coast ? Save Niagara's eternal roar, all is silent as 
the grave. His wife sees it, and is only restrained by force from rushing 
into the river. Hope instantly springs into every bosom, but it is only to 
sink into deeper gloom. The angel of death has spread his wings over that 
little bark ; the poor man's strength is almost gone ; each wave lessens his 
grasp more and more, but all will be safe if that nearest wave is past. 
But that next surging billow breaks his hold upon the pitching timbers, 
the next moment hurling him to the awful verge, where, with body erect, 
hands clenched, and eyes that are taking their last look of earth, he shrieks, 
above Niagara's eternal roar, "Lost!" and sinks forever from the gaze of 
man. 



THE SOLDIER'S PARDON. 



JAMES SMITH. 



^P^ILD blew the gale in Gibraltar one 

fll "KM . t . 

lr^M§k% ^ s a so ^^ er l a y stretched in his 
^r- cell ; 

t And anon, 'mid the darkness, the 

moon's silver light 
j On his countenance dreamily fell. 

Nought could she reveal, but a man true as 
steel, 
That oft for his country had bled ; 
And the glance of his eye might the grim 
king defy, 
For despair, fear, and trembling had fled. 

But in rage he had struck a well-merited 
blow 
At a tyrant who held him in scorn ; 
And his fate soon was sealed, for alas ! 
honest Joe 
Was to die on the following morn . 



Oh ! sad was the thought to a man that had 
fought 
'Mid the ranks of the gallant and 
brave, — 
To be shot through the breast at a coward's 
behest, 
And laid low in a criminal's grave ! 

The night call had sounded, when Joe was 
aroused 
By a step at the door of his cell ; 
' Twas a comrade with whom he had often 
caroused, 
That now entered to bid him farewell. 
" Ah, Tom ! is it ■ you come to bid me 
adieu ? 
'Tis kind my lad ! give me your hand ! 
Nay — nay — don't get wild, man, and make 
me a child ! — 
I'll be soon in a happier land !" 



LONDON CHURCHES. 



237 



With hands clasped in silence, Tom mourn- 
fully said, 
" Have you any request, Joe, to make ? — 
Remember by me 'twill be fully obeyed : 

Can I anything do for your sake ?" 
' When it's over, to-morrow !" he said, filled 
with sorrow, 
" Send this token to her whom I've sworn 
All my fond love to share !" — 'twas a lock 
of his hair, 
And a prayer-book, all faded and worn. 

"Here's this watch for my mother; and 
when you write home," 
And he dashed a bright tear from his 
eye— 
•" Say I died with my heart in old Devon- 
shire, Tom, 
Like a man, and a soldier ! — Good bye !" 
Then the sergeant on guard, at the grating 
appeared, 
And poor Tom had to leave the cold cell, 
By the moon's waning light, with a husky 
" Good-night ! 
God be with you, dear comrade ! — fare- 
well !" 

Gray dawned the morn in a dull cloudy sky, 

When the blast of a bugle resounded ; 
And Joe ever fearless, went forward to die, 

By the hearts of true heroes surrounded. 
" Shoulder arms " was the cry as the pris- 
oner passed by : 
" To the right about — march !" was the 
word ; 
And their pale faces proved how their com- 
rade was loved, 
And by all his brave fellows adored. 



Right onward they marched to the dread 
field of doom : 
Sternly silent, they covered the ground ; 
Then they formed into line amid sadness 
and gloom, 
While the prisoner looked calmly around. 
Then soft on the air rose the accents of prayer, 

And faint tolled the solemn death-knell, 
As he stood on the sand, and with uplifted 
hand, 
Waved the long and the lasting farewell. 

" Make ready !" exclaimed an imperious voice :: 

"Present!" struck a chill on 

each mind ; 
Ere the last word was spoke, Joe had cause 
to rejoice, 
For " Hold ! — hold !" cried a voice from 
behind. 
Then wild was the joy of them all, man and 
boy, 
As a horseman cried, "Mercy! — Forbear!" 

With a thrilling " Hurrah ! a free pardon ! 

huzzah !" 

And the muskets rang loud in the air. 

Soon the comrades were locked in each other's 
embrace : 
No more stood the brave soldiers dumb : 
With a loud cheer they wheeled to the right- 
about-face, 

Then away at the sound of the drum ! 

And a brighter day dawned in sweet Devon's 
fair land, 
Where the lovers met never to part ; 
And he gave her a token — true, warm, and 
unbroken — 
The gift of his own gallant heart ! 



LONDON CHURCHES. 



EICHAED MONCKTON MILNES. 



STOOD, one Sunday morning, 
Before a large church door, 
The congregation gathered 
And carriages a score, — 
From one out stepped a lady 
I oft had seen before. 



Her hand was on a prayer-book, 

And held a vinaigrette ; 

The sign of man's redemption 

Clear on the book was set, — 

But above the Cross there glistened 

A golden Coronet. 



238 



LONDON CHURCHES. 




THE OLD CHUECH. 



For her the obsequious beadle 
The inner door flung wide, 
Lightly, as up a ball-room, 
Her footsteps seemed to glide, — 
There might be good thoughts in her 
For all her evil pride. 

But after her a woman 

Peeped wistfully within 

On whose wan face was graven 



Life's hardest discipline, — 
The trace of the sad trinity 
Of weakness, pain, and sin. 

The few free-seats were crowded 
Where she could rest and pray ; 
With her worn garb contrasted 
Each side in fair array, — 
God's house holds no poor sinners," 
She sighed, and crept away. 



CONSTANTIUS AND THE LION. 239 



CONSTANTIUS AND TEE LION. 



GEORGE CROLY. 




PORTAL of the arena opened, and the combatant, with a mantle 
thrown over his face and figure, was led into the surroundery. 
The lion roared and ramped against the bars of his den at the 
sight. The guard put a sword and buckler into the hands of the 
Christian, and he was left alone. He drew the mantle from his 
face, and bent a slow and firm look around the amphitheatre. 
His fine countenance and lofty bearing raised a universal shout of admira- 
tion. He might have stood for an Apollo encountering the Python. His 
eye at last turned on mine. Could I believe my senses ? Constantius was 
before me. 

All my rancor vanished. An hour past I could have struck the be- 
trayer to the heart, — I could have called on the severest vengeance of man 
and heaven to smite the destroyer of my child. But to see him hopelessly 
doomed, the man whom I had honored- for his noble qualities, whom I had 
even loved, whose crime was, at the worst, but the crime of giving way to 
the strongest temptation that can bewilder the heart of man; to see that 
noble creature flung to the savage beast, dying in tortures, torn piecemeal 
before my eyes, and his misery wrought by me, I would have obtested 
heaven and earth to save him. But my tongue cleaved to the roof of my 
mouth. My limbs refused to stir. I would have thrown myself at the 
feet of Nero ; but I sat like a man of stone — pale — paralyzed — the beating 
of my pulse stopped — my eyes alone alive. 

The gate of the den was thrown back, and the lion rushed in with a 
roar and a bound that bore him half across the arena. I saw the sword 
glitter in the air : when it waved again, it was covered with blood. A 
howl told that the blow had been driven home. The lion, one of the lar- 
gest from Numidia, and made furious by thirst and hunger, an animal of 
prodigious power, crouched for an instant, as if to make sure of his prey, 
crept a few paces onward, and sprang at the victim's throat. He was met 
by a second wound, but his impulse was irresistible. A cry of natural 
horror rang round the amphitheatre. The struggle was now for an 
instant, life or death. They rolled over each other ; the lion, reared upon 
his hind feet, with gnashing teeth and distended talons, plunged on the 
man ; again they rose together. Anxiety was now at its wildest height. 
The sword now swung around the champion's head in bloody circles. They 
fell again, covered with blood and dust. The hand of Constantius had 



240 CONSTANTTUS AND THE LION. 

grasped the lion's mane, and the furious bounds of the monster could not 
loose his hold ; but his strength was evidently giving way, — he still struck 
his terrible blows, but each was weaker than the one before ; till, collecting 
his whole force for a last effort, he darted one mighty blow into the lion's 
throat, and sank. The savage beast yelled, and spouting out blood, fled 
howling around the arena. But the hand still grasped the mane, and the 
conqueror was dragged whirling through the dust at his heels. A Uni- 
versal outcry now arose to save him, if he were not already dead. But 
the lion, though bleeding from every vein, was still too terrible, and all 
shrank from the hazard. At last the grasp gave way, and the body lay 
motionless on the ground. 

What happened for some moments after, I know not. There was a 
struggle at the portal ; a female forced her way through the guards, and 
flung herself upon the victim. The sight of a new prey roused the lion ; 
he tore the ground with his talons ; he lashed his streaming sides with his 
tail ; he lifted up his mane and bared his fangs ; but his approaching was 
no longer with a bound; he dreaded the sword, and came snuffing the 
blood on the sand, and stealing round the body in circuits still 
diminishing. 

The confusion in the vast assemblage was now extreme. Voices 
innumerable called for aid. Women screamed and fainted, men burst into 
indignant clamors at this prolonged cruelty. Even the hard hearts of the 
populace, accustomed as they were to the sacrifice of life, were roused to 
honest curses. The guards grasped their arms, and waited but for a sign 
from the emperor. But Nero gave no sign. 

I looked upon the woman's face ; it was Salome ! I sprang upon my 
feet. I called on her name, — called on her, by every feeling of nature, to 
fly from that place of death, to come to my arms, to think of the agonies 
of all that loved her. 

She had raised the head of Constantius on her knee, and was wiping 
the pale visage with her hair. At the sound of my voice, she looked up, 
and, calmly casting back the locks from her forehead, fixed her eyes upon 
me. She still knelt ; one hand supported the head, — with the other she 
pointed to it as her only answer. I again adjured her. There was the 
silence of death among the thousands around me. A fire flashed into her 
eye, — her cheek burned, — she waved her hand with an air of superb 
sorrow. 

" I am come to die," she uttered, in a lofty tone. " This bleeding body 
was my husband, — I have no father. The world contains to me but this 
slay in my arms. Yet," and she kissed the ashy lips before her, " yet, my 



A PSALM OF LIFE. 



241 



Oonstantius, it was to save that father that your generous heart defied the 
peril of this hour. It was to redeem him from the hand of evil that you 
abandoned your quiet home ! — Yes, cruel father, here lies the noble being 
that threw open your dungeon, that led you safe through the conflagration, 
that, to the last moment of his liberty, only sought how he might serve 
and protect you. Tears at length fell in floods from her eyes. " But," 
said she, in a tone of wild power, "he was betrayed, and may the Power 
whose thunders avenge the cause of his people, pour down just retribution 
upon the head that dared " — 

I heard my own condemnation about to be pronounced by the lips of 
my own child. Wound up to the last degree of suffering, I tore my hair, 
leaped upon the bars before me, and plunged into the arena by her side, 
The height stunned me ; I tottered a few paces and fell. The lion gave a roar 
and sprang upon me. I lay helpless under him, I heard the gnashing of 
his white fangs above. 

An exulting shout arose. I saw him reel as if struck, — gore filled 
his jaws. Another mighty blow was driven to his heart. He sprang high 
in the air with a howl. He dropped ; he was dead. The amphitheatre 
thundered with acclamations. 

With Salome clinging to my bosom, Oonstantius raised me from the 
ground. The roar of the lion had roused him from his swoon, and two 
blows saved me. The falchion had broken in the heart of the monster. 
The whole multitude stood up, supplicating for our lives in the name of 
filial piety and heroism. Nero, devil as he was, dared not resist the 
strength of popular feeling. He waved a signal to the guards ; the portal 
was opened, and my children, sustaining my feeble steps, showered with 
garlands from innumerable hands, slowly led me from the arena. 



A PSALM OF LIFE. 




HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 



ELL me not, in mournful numbers, 
Life is but an empty dream ! 
For the soul is dead that slumbers, 
And things are not what they 
seem. 



Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 

And the grave is not its 
Dust thou art, to dust returnest, 

Was not spoken of the soul. 
10 



Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 

Is our destined end or way ; 
But to act, that each to-morrow 

Find us farther than to-day. 

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, 

And our hearts, though stout andbravt^ 

Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
Funeral marches to the grave. 



242 



TO NIGHT. 



In the world's broad field of battle, 


And, departing, leave behind us 


In the bivouac of Life, 


Footprints on the sands of time ; — 


Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! 




Be a hero in the strife ! 


Footprints, that perhaps another, 




Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 


Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant ! 


A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 


Let the dead Past bury its dead ! 


Seeing, shall take heart again. 


Act, — act in the living Present ! 




Heart within, and God o'erhead ! 


Let us, then, be up and doing, 




With a heart for any fate ; 


Lives of great men all remind us 


Still achieving, still pursuing, 


We can make our lives sublime, 


Learn to labor and to wait. 



"BLESSED ABE THEY THAT MOURN." 




WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 



DEEM not they are blest alone 
Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep ; 

The Power who pities man has 
shown 
A blessing for the eyes that weep. 

The light of smiles shall fill again 
The lids that overflow with tears ; 

And weary hours of woe and pain 
Are promises of happier years. 



There is a day of sunny rest 

For every dark and troubled night ; 

And grief may bide an evening guest, 
But j oy shall come with early light. 



And thou, who, o'er thy friend's low bier, 
Sheddest the bitter drops like rain, 

Hope that a brighter, happier sphere 
Will give him to thy arms again. 

Nor let the good man's trust depart, 
Though life its common gifts deny, — 

Though with a pierced and bleeding heart, 
And spurned of men, he goes to die. 

For God hath marked each sorrowing day. 

And numbered every secret tear, 
And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay 

For all his children suffer here. 



TO NIGHT 



PEllCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 




WIFTLY walk over the western wave, 
Spirit of Night! 
Out of the misty eastern cave, 
Where all the long and lone daylight, 
Thou weav est dreams of joy and fear, 
Which make thee terrible and dear, — 
Swift be thy flight ! 



Wrap thy form in a mantle gray, 

Star-inwrought ! 
Blind with thy hair the eyes of day, 
Kiss her until she be wearied out, 
Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land, 
Touching all with thine opiate wand — 

Come, long-sought ! 




NIGHT. 



SNOW-FLAKES. 



243 



When I arose and saw the dawn, 

I sighed for thee ! 
When light rode high, and the dew was gone, 
And noon lay heavy on floor and tree, 
And the weary Day turned to his rest, 
Lingering, like an unloved guest, 

I sighed for thee ! 

Thy brother Death came, and cried, 

Wouldst thou me ? 
Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, 
Murmured like a noontide bee, 



Shall I nestle near thy side ? 
Wouldst thou me ? — and I replied, 
No, not thee! 



Death will come when thou art dead, 

Soon, too soon, — 
Sleep will come when thou art fled ; 
Of neither would I ask the boon 
I ask of thee, beloved Night — 
Swift be thine approaching flight, 

Come soon, soon! 



BUEIED TO-DAY. 



JURIED to-day 

When the soft green buds are burst- 
ing out, 
And up on the south-wind comes a 
shout 
Of village boys and girls at play 
In the mild spring evening gray. 

Taken away 

Sturdy of heart and stout of limb, 
From eyes that drew half their light from 
him, 
And put low, low underneath the clay, 
In his spring, — on this spring day. 



DINAH MARIA MULOCK. 




Passes away, 

All the pride of boy -life begun, 
All the hope of life yet to run ; 

Who dares to question when One saith 
"Nay." 

Murmur not, — only pray. 

Enters to-day 

Another body in churchyard sod, 
Another soul on the life in God. 

His Christ was buried — and lives alway : 

Trust Him, and go your way. 



SNOW-FLAKES. 



HARRIET B. M KEEVER. 




EAUTIFUL snow ! beautiful snow ! 
Falling so lightly, 
Daily and nightly, 
Alike round the dwelling of lofty 
and low. 
Horses are prancing, 
Children are dancing, 
Stirr'd by the spirit that comes with 
the snow. 



Beautiful snow ! beautiful snow ! 
Atmosphere chilling, 
Carriage wheels stilling, 



Warming the cold earth, and kindling the 
glow 
Of Christian pity 
For the great city, 
For wretched creatures, who freeze 'mid the 
snow. 



Beautiful snow ! beautiful snow ! 
Fierce the wind blowing, 
Deep the drifts strowing, 
Night gathers round us, how warm the red 
glow 



244 



THE OLD WIFE'S KISS. 



Of the fire so bright, 
On the cold winter night, 
As we draw in the curtains, to shut out the 


In that sweet eventide, 
Closely we gather, though keen the wind 


snow. 


Safely defended, 


Beautiful snow ! beautiful snow 


Kindly befriended, 


Round the dear fireside, 


Pity the houseless, exposed to the snow. 



THE OLD WIFE'S KISS. 




I|HE funeral services were ended ; and as the voice of prayer ceased, 
§, tears were hastily wiped from wet cheeks, and long-drawn sighs 
relieved suppressed and choking sobs, as the mourners prepared 
to take leave of the corpse. It was an old man who lay there, 
robed for the grave. More than three-score years had whitened those 
locks, and furrowed that brow, and made those stiff limbs weary of 
life's journey, and the more willing to be at rest where weariness is no 
longer a burden. 

The aged have few to weep for them when they die. The most of those 
who would have mourned their loss have gone to the grave before them ; 
harps that would have sighed sad harmonies are shattered and gone ; and 
the few that remain are looking cradleward, rather than to life's closing 
goal ; are bound to and living in the generation rising, more than in the 
generation departing. Youth and beauty have many admirers while 
living, — have many mourners when dying, — and many tearful ones bend 
over their coffined clay, many sad hearts follow in their funeral train ! but 
age has few admirers, few mourners. 

This was an old man, and the circle of mourners was small: two 
children, who had themselves passed the middle of life, and who had 
children of their own to care for and be cared for by them. Beside these, 
and a few friends who had seen and visited him while he was sick, and 
possibly had known him for a few years, there were none others to shed 
a tear, except his old wife ; and of this small company, the old wife 
seemed to be the only heart-mourner. It is respectful for his friends 
to be sad a few moments, till the service is performed and the hearse is 
out of sight. It is very proper and suitable for children, who have out- 
grown the fervency and affection of youth, to shed tears when an aged 
parent says farewell, and lies down to quiet slumber. Some regrets, 
some recollection of the past, some transitory griefs, and the pangs are 



over. 



THE OLD WIFE'S KISS. 245 



The old wife arose with difficulty from her seat, and went to the 
coffin to look her last look — to take her last farewell. Through the fast 
falling tears she gazed long and fondly down into the pale, unconscious 
face. What did she see there ? Others saw nothing but the rigid features 
of the dead; she saw more. In every wrinkle of that brow she read the 
history of years ; from youth to manhood, from manhood to old age, in 
joy and sorrow, in sickness and health, it was all there ; when those chil- 
dren, who had not quite outgrown the sympathies of childhood, were 
infants lying on her bosom, and every year since then — there it was. To 
others those dull, mute monitors were unintelligible ; to her they were 
the alphabet of the heart, familiar as household words. 

Then the future : " What will become of me ? What shall I do now?" 
She did not say so, but she felt it. The prospect of the old wife is clouded ; 
the home circle is broken, never to be reunited ; the visions of the hearth- 
stone are scattered forever. Up to that hour there was a home to which 
the heart always turned with fondness. That magic is now sundered, the 
key-stone of that sacred arch has fallen, and home is nowhere this side of 
heaven ! Shall she gather up the scattered fragments of the broken arch, 
make them her temple and her shrine, sit down in her chill solitude beside 
its expiring fires, and die ? What shall she do now ? 

They gently crowded her away from the dead, and the undertaker came 
forward, with the coffin-lid in his hand. It is all right and proper, of course, 
it must be done ; but to the heart-mourner it brings a kind of shudder, a 
thrill of agony. The undertaker stood for a moment, with a decent pro- 
priety, not wishing to manifest rude haste, but evidently desirous of being 
as expeditious as possible. Just as he was about to close the coffin, the old 
wife turned back, and stooping down, imprinted one long, last kiss upon 
the cold lips of her dead husband, then staggered to her seat, buried her 
face in her hands, and the closing coffin hid him from her sight forever ! 

That kiss ! fond token of affection, and of sorrow, and memory, and 
farewell ! I have seen many kiss their dead, many such seals of love upon 
clay-cold lips, but never did I see one so purely sad, so simply heart- 
touching and hopeless as that. Or, if it had hope, it was that which looks 
beyond coffins, and charnel-houses, and damp, dark tombs, to the joys of the 
home above. You would kiss the cold cheek of infancy ; there is poetry ; it is 
beauty hushed ; there is romance there, for the faded flower is still beauti- 
ful. In childhood the heart yields to the stroke of sorrow, but recoils 
again with elastic faith, buoyant with hope ; but here was no beauty, no 
poetry, no romance. 

The heart of the old wife was like the weary swimmer, whose strength 



246 



MAIDENHOOD. 



has often raised him above the stormy waves, but now, exhausted, sinks 
amid the surges. The temple of her earthly hopes had fallen, and what 
was there left for her but to sit down in despondency, among its lonely 
ruins, and weep and die ! or, in the spirit of a better hope, await the 
dawning of another day, when a Hand divine shall gather its sacred dust, 
and rebuild for immortality its broken walls ! 



MAIDENHOOD. 




HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 



AIDEN ! with the meek, brown eyes, 
In whose orbs a shadow lies 
m Like the dusk in evening skies ! 

Thou whose locks outshine the sun, 
Golden tresses, wreathed in one, 
As the braided streamlets run ! 

Standing with reluctant feet, 
Where the brook and river meet, 
"Womanhood and childhood fleet ! 

Gazing, with a timid glance, 
On the brooklet's swift advance, 
On the river's broad expanse ! 

Deep and still, that gliding stream 
Beautiful to thee must seem, 
As the river of a dream ! 

Then why pause with indecision, 
When bright angels in thy vision 
Beckon thee to fields Elysian ? 

Seest thou shadows sailing by, 
As the dove, with startled eye, 
Sees the falcon's shadow fly ? 

0, thou child of many prayers ! 

Life hath quicksands, — Life hath snares ! 

Care and age come unawares ! 

Bear a lily in thy hand ; 

Gates of brass cannot withstand 

One touch of that magic wand. 



Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, 




In thy heart the dew of youth, 
On thy lips the smile of truth. 



THE BROOK SIDE. 



247 



THE BROOK SIDE. 



RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES. 



WANDERED by the brook side, 

I wandered by the mill ; 
I could not hear the brook flow, 

The noisy wheel was still • 
There was no burr of grasshopper, 

No chirp of any bird ; 
But the beating of my own heart 

Was all the sound I heard. 



He came not — no he came not ; 

The night came on alone ; 
The little stars sat, one by one, 

Each on his golden throne : 
The evening wind passed by my cheek, 

The leaves above were stirred ; 
But the beating of my own heart 

Was all the sound I heard. 




I sat beneath the elm-tree ; 

I watched the long, long shade, 
And as it grew still longer, 

I did not feel afraid ; 
For I listened for a footfall, 

I listened for a word ; 
But the beating of my own heart 

Was all the sound I heard. 



Fast silent tears were flowing, 

When something stood behind ; 
A hand was on my shoulder, 

I knew its touch was kind : 
It drew me nearer — nearer, 

We did not speak a word ; 
For the beating of our own hearts 

Was all the sound we heard. 



248 



ZEPH HIGGINS' CONFESSION. 



THE CATARACT OF LODORE. 



ROBERT SOUTHEY. 




OW does the water 
Come down at Lodore ? 



." 




From its sources which well 
In the tarn on the fell ; 
From its fountains 



In the mountains, 

Its rills and its gills ; 

Through moss and through brake 

It runs and it creeps, 

For a while, till it sleeps 

In its own little lake. 

And thence at departing, 
Awakening and starting, 

It runs through the reeds, 

And away it proceeds, 
Through meadow and glade, 
In sun and in shade, 
And through the wood-shelter, 

Among crags in its flurry, 
Helter-skelter, 

Hurry-skurry. 

Here it comes sparkling, 
And there it lies darkling ; 
Now smoking and frothing, 
Its tumult and wrath in, 
Till, in this rapid race, 

On which it is bent, 
It reaches the place 

Of its steep descent. 



ZEPH HIGGINS' CONFESSION. 



HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 



Zeph Higgins was quarrelsome, exacting, and stubborn to such a degree that he was repulsive to the 
village people. His first real trouble came in the death of his loving, patient wife — whose last request was 
that he would put away all hard feelings, and make up his old feud with the church. 




FKOM POGANUC PEOPLE. 



OTHING- could be rougher and more rustic than the old school- 
house, — its walls hung with cobwebs ; its rude slab benches and 
desks hacked by many a schooolboy's knife ; the plain, ink-stained 
pine table before the minister, with its two tallow candles, whose 



ZEPH HIGGINS' CONFESSION. 249 

dim rays scarcely gave light enough to read the hymns. There was 
nothing outward to express the real greatness of what was there in 
reality. 

From the moment the Doctor entered he was conscious of a present 
Power. There was a hush, a stillness, and the words of his prayer seemed 
to go out into an atmosphere thrilling with emotion, and when he rose to 
speak he saw the countenances of his parishioners with that change upon 
them which comes from the waking up of the soul to higher things. Hard, 
weather-beaten faces were enkindled and eager ; every eye was fixed upon 
him ; every word he spoke seemed to excite a responsive emotion. 

The Doctor read from the Old Testament the story of Achan. He 
told how the host of the Lord had turned back because there was one in 
the camp who had secreted in his tent an accursed thing. He asked, 
" can it be now and here, among us who profess to be Christians, that we 
are secreting in our hearts some accursed thing that prevents the good 
Spirit of the Lord from working among us ? Is it our hard feeling 
against a brother ? Is there anything that we know to be wrong that we 
refuse to make right — anything that we know belongs to God that we are 
withholding ? If we Christians lived as high as we ought, if we lived up 
to our professions, would there be any sinners unconverted ? Let us ' 
beware how we stand in the way. If the salt have lost its savor where- 
with shall it be salted ? Oh, my brethren, let us not hinder the work of 
God. I look around on this circle and I miss the face of a sister who was 
always here to help us with her prayers ; now she is with the general 
assembly and church of the first-born, whose names are written in 
heaven, with the spirits of the just made perfect. But her soul will rejoice 
with the angels of God if she looks down and sees us all coming 
up to where we ought to be. God grant that her prayers may be 
fulfilled in us. Let us examine ourselves, brethren; let us cast out the 
stumbling-block, that the way of the Lord may be prepared." 

The words, simple in themselves, became powerful by the atmosphere 
of deep feeling into which they were uttered ; there were those solemn 
pauses, that breathless stillness, those repressed breathings, that magnetic 
sympathy that unites souls under the power of one overshadowing con- 
viction. 

When the Doctor sat down, suddenly there was a slight movement, 
and from a dark back seat rose the gaunt form of Zeph Higgins. He was 
deathly pale, and his form trembled with emotion. Every eye was fixed 
upon him, and people drew in their breath, with involuntary surprise and 
suspense. 



250 ZEPH HIGGINS' CONFESSION. 

" Wal, I must speak," he said. " Tm a stumbling-block, I've allers 
been one. I hain't never ben a Christian, that's jest the truth on't. I 
never hed oughter 'a'ben in the church. I've ben all wrong — wrong — ■ 
weong ! I knew I was wrong, but I wouldn't give up. It's ben jest my 
awful will. I've set up my will agin Grod Almighty. I've set it agin my 
neighbors — 'agin the minister and agin the church. And now the Lord's 
come out agin me ; He's struck me down. I know He's got a right — He 
can do what He pleases — but I ain't resigned — not a grain. I submit 'cause 
I can't help myself; but my heart's hard and wicked. I expect my day 
of grace is over. , I ain't a Christian, and I can't be, and I shall go to hell 
at last, and sarve me right !" 

And Zeph sat down, grim and stony, and the neighbors looked one on 
another in a sort of consternation. There was a terrible earnestness in 
those words that seemed to appall every one and prevent any from uttering 
the ordinary commonplaces of religious exhortation. For a few moments 
the circle was silent as the grave, when Dr. Cushing said, " Brethren, let 
us pray ;" and in his prayer he seemed to rise above earth and draw his 
whole flock, with all their sins, and needs, and wants, into the presence- 
chamber of heaven. 

He prayed that the light of heaven might shine into the darkened 
spirit of their brother ; that he might give himself up utterly to the will 
of God ; that we might all do it, that we might become as little children 
in the kingdom of heaven. With the wise tact which distinguished his 
ministry he closed the meeting immediately after the prayer with one or 
two serious words of exhortation. He feared lest what had been gained 
in impression might be talked away did he hold the meeting open to the 
well-meant, sincere, but uninstructed efforts of the brethren to meet a case 
like that which had been laid open before them. 

After the service was over and the throng slowly dispersed, Zeph 
remained in his place, rigid and still. One or two approached to speak 
to him ; there was in fact a tide of genuine sympathy and brotherly feeling 
that longed to express itself. He might have been caught up in this 
powerful current and borne into a haven of peace, had he been one to trust 
himself to the help of others ; but he looked neither to the right nor to 
the left ; his eyes were fixed on the floor ; his brown, bony hands held his 
old straw hat in a crushing grasp ; his whole attitude and aspect were 
repelling and stern to such a degree that none dared address him. 

The crowd slowly passed on and out. Zeph sat alone, as he thought; 
but the minister, his wife, and little Dolly had remained at the upper end 
of the room. Suddenly, as if sent by an irresistible impulse, Dolly 



RESIGNATION. 



251 



stepped rapidly down the room and with eager gaze laid her pretty little 
timid hand upon his shoulder, crying, in a voice tremulous at once with 
fear and with intensity, " 0, why do you say that you cannot be a 
Christian ? Don't you know that Christ loves you ?" 

Christ loves you ! The words thrilled through his soul with a strange, 
new power; he opened his eyes and looked astonished into the little 
earnest, pleading face. 

" Christ loves you," she repeated; "oh, do believe it!" 

" Loves me /" he said, slowly. " Why should He ?" 

" But He does ; He loves us all. He died for us. He died for you. 
Oh, believe it. He'll help you ; He'll make you feel right. Only trust 
Him. Please say you will !" 

Zeph looked at the little face earnestly, in a softened, wondering way. 
A tear slowly stole down his hard cheek. 

" Thank'e, dear child," he said. 

"You will believe it ?" 
' I'll try." 

" You will trust Him ?" 

Zeph paused a moment, then rose up with a new and different expres- 
sion in his face, and said, in a subdued and earnest voice, " I will!' 

"Amen!" said the Doctor, who stood listening; and he silently 
grasped the old man's hand. 



RESIGNATION. 




HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 



IHERE is no flock, however watched 
and tended, 
42g§^tj But one dead lamb is there ! 

There is no fireside, howsoe'er de- 
ll fended, 
T But has one vacant chair ! 

The air is full of farewells to the dying 

And mournings for the dead ; 
The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, 

Will not be comforted ! 

Let us be patient ! These severe afflictions 

Not from the ground arise, 
But oftentimes celestial benedictions 

Assume this dark disguise. 



We see but dimly through the mists and 
vapors ; 

Amid these earthly damps 
What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers 

May be heaven's distant lamps. 

There is no Death ! What seems so is tran- 
sition : 
This life of mortal breath 
Is but a suburb of the life elysian, 
• Whose portal we call Death. 

She is nlot dead,-^the child of our affection, — 

But gone unto that school 
Where she no longer needs our poor protection, 

And Christ himself doth rule. 



252 



ENOCH ARDEN AT THE WINDOW. 



In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, 

By guardian angels led, 
Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollu- 
tion, 

She lives whom we call dead. 

Day after day we think what she is doing 

In those bright realms of air ; 
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, 

Behold her grown more fair. 

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken 

The bond which nature gives, 
Thinking that our remembrance, though un- 
spoken, 

May reach her where she lives. 

Not as a child shall we again behold her ; 
For when with raptures wild 



In our embraces we again enfold her, 
She will not be a child : 

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, 

Clothed with celestial grace ; 
And beautiful with all the soul's expansion 

Shall we behold her face. 



And though, at times, impetuous with emotion 

And anguish long suppressed, 
The swelling heart heaves moaning like the 
ocean, 

That cannot be at rest, — 

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling 

We may not wholly stay ; 
By silence sanctifying, not concealing 

The grief that must have way. 



ENOCH ARDEN AT THE WINDOW. 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 




UT Enoch yearned to see her face 
again ; 
" If I might look on her sweet face 



So 



again 

And know that she is happy 
the thought 
Haunted and harassed him, and drove 

him forth 
At evening when the dull November day 
Was growing duller twilight, to the hill. 
There he sat down gazing on all below : 
There did a thousand memories roll upon him, 
Unspeakable for sadness. By and by 
The ruddy square of comfortable light, 
Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's house, 
Allured him, as the beacon- blaze allures 
The bird of passage, till he madly strike 
Against it, and beats out his weary life. 

For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street, 
The latest house to landward ; but behind, 
With one small gate that opened on the waste, 
Flourished a little garden square and walled : 



And in it throve an ancient evergreen, 
A yew-tree, and all around it ran a walk 
Of shingle, and a walk divided it : 
But Enoch shunned the middle walk and stole 
Up by the wall, behind the yew ; and thence 
That which he better might have shunned, if 

griefs 
Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw. 

For cups and silver on the burnished board 
Sparkled and shone ; so genial was the hearth ; 
And on the right hand of the hearth he saw 
Philip, the slighted suitor of old times, 
Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees; 
And o'er her second father stoopt a girl, 
A later but a loftier Annie Lee, 
Fair-haired and tall, and from her lifted 

hand 
Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring 
To tempt the babe, who reared his creasy 

arms, 
Caught at and ever missed it, and they 



And on the left hand of the hearth he saw 



THE FISHERS COTTAGE. 



253 



The mother glancing often at her babe, 
But turning now and then to speak with him, 
Her son, who stood beside her tall and strong, 
And saying that which pleased him, for he 
smiled. 

Now when the dead man come to life 

beheld 
His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe 
Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee, 
And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness, 
And his own children tall and beautiful, 
And him, that other, reigning in his place, 
Lord oi his rights and of his children's love, — ■ 
Then he, though Miriam Lane had told him 

all, 
Because things seen are mightier than things 

heard, 



Staggered and shook, holding the branch, 

and feared 
To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry, 
Which in one moment, like the blast of doom, 
Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth. 

He therefore turning softly like a thief, 
Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot, 
And feeling all along the garden-wall, 
Lest he should swoon and tumble and be 

found, 
Crept to the gate, and opened it, and closed, 
As lightly as a sick man's chamber-door, 
Behind him, and came out upon the waste. 

And there he would have knelt, but that 
his knees 
Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug 
His fingers into the wet earth, and prayed. 




THE FISHERS COTTAGE. 




HENRY HEINE, translated by CHARLES G. LELAND. 



E sat by the fisher's cottage, 

And looked at the stormy tide 
W& The evening mist came rising, 
And floating far and wide. 

One by one in the lighthouse 

The lamps shone out on high ; 
And far on the dim horizon 
A ship went sailing by. 



We spoke of storm and shipwreck, — 
Of sailors, and how they live ; 

Of journeys 'twixt sky and water, 
And the sorrows and joys they givo. 

We spoke of distant countries, 
In regions strange and fair, 

And of the wondrous beings 
And curious customs there : 



254 



MISS EDITH HELPS THINGS ALONG. 



Of perfumed lamps on the Ganges, 

Which are launched in the twilight hour ; 

And the dark and silent Brahmins, 
Who worship the lotos flower. 

Of the wretched dwarfs of Lapland, — 

Broad-headed, wide-mouthed, and small, — 



Who crouch round their oil fires, cooking, 
And chatter and scream and bawl. 

And the maidens earnestly listened, 
Till at last we spoke no more ; 

The ship like a shadow had vanished, 
And darkness fell deep on the shore. 



SERVANT OF GOD, WELL DONE. 



Suggested by the sudden death of the Rev. Thomas Taylor, who had preached the previous evening. 



JAMES MONTGOMERY. 




ERVANT of God, well done; 
Rest from thy loved employ ; 
The battle fought, the victory won, 

Enter thy master's joy." 
The voice at midnight came ; 

He started up to hear, 
A mortal arrow pierced his frame ; 
He fell, — but felt no fear. 



Tranquil amidst alarms, 

It found him in the field, 
A veteran slumbering on his arms, 

Beneath his red-cross shield : 
His sword was in his hand, 

Still warm with recent fight ; 
Ready that moment, at command, 

Through rock and steel to smite. 



At midnight came the cry, 

" To meet thy God prepare ! " 
He woke, — and caught the Captain's eye 

Then strong in faith and prayer, 
His spirit, with a bound, 

Burst its encumbering clay ; 
His tent at sunrise, on the ground, 

A darkened ruin lay. 

The pains of death are past, 

Labor and sorrow cease ; 
And life's long warfare closed at last, 

His soul is found in peace. 
Soldier of Christ ! well done ; 

Praise be thy new employ ; 
And while eternal ages run, 

Rest in thy Saviour's joy. 



MISS EDITH HELPS THINGS ALONG. 




F. BRET HARTE. 



»Y sister'll be down in a minute, and « 
says you're to wait, if you please; 
*^j% And says I might stay till she came, 
if I'd promise her never to tease, 
Nor speak till you spoke to me first. 
I But that's nonsense ; for how would 
J you know 

Vfhat she told me to say if I didn't? Don't 
you really and truly think so ? 



" And then you'd feel strange here alone. 

And you wouldn't know just where to 
sit; 
For that chair isn't strong on its legs, and 

we never use it a bit : 
We keep it to match with the sofa ; but Jack 

says it would be like you 
To flop yourself right down upon it, and 

knock out the very last screw. 



HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. 



255 



° Suppose you try ! I won't tell. You're 

afraid to ! Oh ! you're afraid they would 

think it mean ! 
Well, then, there's the album : that's pretty if 

you're sure that your fingers are clean. 
For sister says sometimes I daub it ; but she 

only says that when she's cross. 
There's her picture. You know it ? It's like 

her ; but she ain't good-looking, of course. 

"This is me." It's the best of 'em all. Now, 

tell me, you'd never have thought 
That once I was little as that ? It's the only 

one that could be bought ; 
For that was the message to pa from the 

photograph-man where I sat, — 
That he wouldn't print off any more till he 

first got his money for that. 

" What ? Maybe you're tired of waiting. 

Why, often she's longer than this. 
There's all her back hair to do up, and all 

her front curls to friz. 



But it's nice to be sitting here talking like 
grown people, just you and me ! 

Do you think you'll be coming here often? 
Oh, do ! But don't come like Tom Lee,— 

" Tom Lee, her last beau. Why, my goodness ! 

he used to be here day and night, 
Till the folks thought he'd be her husband ; 

and Jack says that gave him a fright. 
You won't run away then, as he did? for 

you're not a rich man, they say. 
Pa says you're as poor as a church-mouse. 

Now, are you ? and how poor are they ? 

" Ain't you glad that you met me ? Well, I 

am ; for I know now your hair isn't red ; 
But what there is left of it's mousy, and not 

what that naughty Jack said. 
But there I must go : sister's coming ! But I 

wish I could wait, just to see 
If she ran up to you, and she kissed you in 

the wav that she used to kiss Lee." 



HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. 



. <^po . 



HOE ACE SMITH. 




AY-STARS ! that ope your eyes at 
morn to twinkle 
From rainbow galaxies of earth's 
creation ; 
And dewdrops on her lovely altars 
sprinkle 

As a libation. 



Ye matin worshippers ! who bending lowly 

Before the uprisen sun, God's lidless eye, 
Pour from your chalices a sweet and holy 
Incense on high. 

Ys bright mosaics ! that with storied beauty 

The floor of nature's temple tesselate — 
W nat numerous lessons of instructive duty 
Your forms create ! 



'Neath cloister'd bough each floral bell that 
swingeth, 
And tolls its perfume on the passing air, 
Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth 
A call to prayer. 

Not to those domes where crumbling arch 
and column 
Attest the feebleness of mortal hand, 
But to that fane most catholic and solemn, 

Which God hath plann'd ; 

To that cathedral boundless as our wonder, 
Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon 
supply ; 
Its choir, the wind and waves ; its organ, 
thunder ; 

Its dome, the skv. 



QK 



56 



DEATH OF LITTLE NELL. 



There, as in solitude and shade, I wander 
Through the lone aisles, or stretched upon 
the sod, 
Awed by the silence, reverently ponder 
The ways of God. 

Not useless are jfe, flowers, though made for 
pleasure, 
Blooming o'er hill and dale, by day and 
night; 
On every side your sanction bids me treasure 
Harmless delight ! 

Your voiceless lips, flowers! are living 
preachers ; 
Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book ; 
Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers, 
In loneliest nook. 

Floral apostles, that with dewy splendor 
Blush without sin, and weep without a 
crime ! 
Oh ! may I deeply learn, and ne'er sur- 
render 

Your lore divine ! 



" Thou wert not, Solomon, in all thy glory, 
Array'd," the lilies cry " in robes like ours ; 
How vain your glory — Oh ! how transitory- 
Are human flowers !" 

In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly artist, 
With which thou paintest nature's wide- 
spread hall, 
What a delightful lesson thou impartest 
Of love to all ! 

Posthumous glories — angel-like collection, 
Upraised from seed and bulb interr'd in. 
earth ; 
Ye are to me a type of resurrection 

And second birth ! 

Ephemeral sages — what instructors hoary 
To such a world of thought could furnish- 
scope ? 
Each fading calyx a memento mori, 

Yet fount of hope. 

Were I, God ! in churchless lands remaining, 

Far from the voice of teachers and divines, 

My soul would find in flowers of thy ordaining 

Priests, sermons, shrinest 



DEATH OF LITTLE NELL. 




CHARLES DICKENS. 



jY little and little, the old man had drawn back towards the inner 
f^, chamber, while these words were spoken. He pointed there, as 
he replied, with trembling lips, — 

" You plot among you to wean my heart from her. You 
will never do that — never while I have life. I have no relative or 
friend but her — I never had — I never will have. She is all in all to 
me. It is too late to part us now." 

Waving them off with his hand, and calling softly to her as he went, 
he stole into the room. They who were left behind drew close together, 
and after a few whispered words, — not unbroken by emotion, or easily 
uttered, — followed him. They moved so gently that their footsteps made 
no noise, but there were sobs from among the group and sounds of grief 
and mourning. 



DEATH OF LITTLE NELL. 257 



For she was dead. There, upon her little bed, she lay at rest. The 
solemn stillness was no marvel now. 

She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and calm, so free from trace of 
pain, so fair to look upon. She seemed a creature fresh from the hand of 
God, and waiting for the breath of life ; not one who had lived and suffered 
death. 

Her couch was dressed with here and there some winter berries and 
green leaves, gathered in a spot she had been used to favor. " When I 
die, put near me something that has loved the light, and had the sky above 
it always." Those were her words. 

She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. Her 
little bird — a poor slight thing the pressure of a finger would have crushed 
— was stirring nimbly in its cage ; and the strong heart of its child-mis- 
tress was mute and motionless forever. 

Where were the traces of her early cares, her sufferings and fatigues ? 
All gone. Sorrow was dead indeed in her, but peace and perfect happiness 
were born ; imaged in her tranquil beauty and profound repose. 

And still her former self lay there, unaltered in this change. Yes. 
The old fireside had smiled upon that same sweet face ; it had passed like 
a dream through haunts of misery and care; at the door of the poor 
schoolmaster on the summer evening, before the furnace fire upon the cold, 
wet night, at the still bedside of the dying boy, there had been the same 
mild, lovely look. So shall we know the angels in their majesty after 
death. 

The old man held one languid arm in his, and had the small hand 
tight folded to his breast for warmth. It was the hand she had stretched 
out to him with her last smile — the hand that had led him on through all 
their wanderings. Ever and anon he pressed it to his lips, then hugged 
it to his breast again, murmuring that it was warmer now ; and as he said 
it, he looked in agony to those who stood around, as if imploring them to 
help her. 

She was dead, and past all help, or need of it. The ancient rooms 
she had seemed to fill with life, even while her own was waning fast, — the 
garden she had tended, — the eyes she had gladdened — the noiseless haunts 
of many a thoughtless hour — the paths she had trodden as it were but 
yesterday — could know her no more. 

"It is not," said the schoolmaster, as he bent down to kiss her on the 
cheek, and give his tears free vent, " it is not on earth that heaven's justice 
ends. Think what it is compared with the world to which her young 
spirit has winged its early flight, and say, if one deliberate wish expressed 

17 



258 



THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE. 



in solemn terms above this bed ' could call her back to life, which of us 
would utter it ?" 



FATE. 




F. BEET HAUTE. 



|HE sky is clouded, the rocks are bare, 
| The spray of the tempest is white in 
air, 
The winds are out with the waves 

at play — 
And I shall not tempt the sea to-day. 



trail is narrow, the wood is dim, 



The panther clings to the arching limb : 
And the lion's whelps are abroad at play — 
And I shall not join the ckase to-day. 

But the ship sailed safely over the sea, 
And the hunters came from the chase in glee; 
And the town that was built upon a rock 
Was swallowed up in the earthquake shock. 



THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE. 




GEORGE ARNOLD. 



|WAS a jolly old pedagogue, long ago, 
■ Tall and slender, and sallow and 

dry; 
Hi6 form was bent, and his gait was 

slow, 
His long, thin hair was as white as 
snow, 
But a wonderful twinkle shone in 
his eye ; 
And he sang every night, as he went to bed, 

" Let us be happy, down here below ; 
The living should live, though the dead be 
dead," 
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

He taught his scholars the rule of three, 

Writing, and reading, and history, too ; 
He took the little ones upon his knee, 
For a kind old heart in his breast had he, 

And the wants of the littlest child he knew : 
" Learn while you're young," he often said; 

" There is much to enjoy, down here below ; 
Life for the living, and rest for the dead !" 

Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

With the stupidest boys he was kind and cool, 

Speaking only in gentlest tones ; 
The rod was hardly known in his school — 
Whipping to him was a barbarous rule, 



And too hard work for his poor old bones ; 
Beside, it was painful, he sometimes said : 

" We should make life pleasant, down here 
below, 
The living need charity more than the dead," 

Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

He lived in the house by the hawthorn lane, 

With roses and woodbine over the door ; 
His rooms were quiet, and neat, and plain, 
But a spirit of comfort there held reign, 

And made him forget he was old and poor ; 
" I need so little," he often said ; 

" And my friends and relatives here below 
Won't litigate over me when I am dead," 

Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

But the pleasantest times that he Uad, of all, 

Were the sociable hours he used to pass, 
With his chair tipped back to a neighbor's wall 
Making an unceremonious call, 

Over a pipe and a friendly glass : 
This was the finest pleasure, he said, 

Of the many he tasted here below , 
" Who has no cronies, had better be dead !" 

Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

Then the jolly old pedagogue's wrinkled face 
Melted all over in sunshiny smiles; 



THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE. 



259 



He stirred his glass with an old-school grace, 
Chuckled, and sipped, and prattled apace, 

Till the house grew merry from cellar to tiles. 
" I'm a pretty old man," he gently said, 

'* I have lingered a long while, here below ; 



Leaving his tenderest kisses there, 

On the jolly old pedagogue's jolly old 
crown ; 

And, feeling the kisses, he smiled, and said, 
'Twas a glorious world, down here below; 




" He took the little ones upon his knee." 



But my heart is fresh, if my youth is tied !" 
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

He smoked his pipe in the balmy air, 

Every night when the sun went down, 
While the soft wind played in his silvery 
hair, 



" Why wait for happiness till we are dead?' 
Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

He sat at his door, one midsummer night, 

After the sun had sunk in the west, 
And the lingering beams of golden light 
Made his kindly old face look warm and bright 



260 



THE COMET. 



tht- 



While the odorous 
"Rest!" 
Gently, gently, he bowed his head 



d whispered, 



There were angels waiting for him, I know ; 
He was sure of happiness, living or dead, 
This jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 



THE COMET. 



THOMAS HOOD. 



||8€||MONG professors of astronomy, 
^ftj^o Adepts in the celestial economy, 
45p'^» The name of Hersch el's very often 
i cited ; 

I" And justly so, for he is hand in glove 

5 With every bright intelligence above, 

Indeed, it was his custom so to stop, 
Watching the stars, upon the house's top ; 
That once upon a time he got benighted. 

In his observatory thus coquetting, 

With Venus or with Juno gone astray, 
All sublunary matters quite forgetting 
In his flirtations with the winking stars, 
Acting the spy, it might be, upon Mars, — 

A new Andre ; 
Or, like a Tom of Coventry, sly peeping 
At Dian sleeping ; 
Or ogling through his glass 
Some heavenly lass, 

Tripping with pails along the Milky way ; 
Or looking at that wain of Charles, the 
Martyr's. 
Thus was he sitting, watchman of the sky, 
When lo ! a something with a tail of flame 
Made him exclaim, 

" My stars !" — he always puts that stress 
on my, — 
" My stars and garters !" 

" A comet, sure as I'm alive ! 

A noble one as I should wish to view ; 

It can't be Halley's though, that is not due 
Till eighteen thirty-five. 
Magnificent ! How fine his fiery trail ! 

Zounds ! 'tis a pity, though, he comes 
unsought, 

Unasked, unreckoned, — in no human 
thought ; 

He ought — he ought — he ought 

To have been caught 
With scientific salt upon his tail. 



" I looked no more for it, I do declare, 
Than the Great Bear ! 

As sure as Tycho Brahe is dead, 

It really entered in my head 
No more than Berenice's hair !" 
Thus musing, heaven's grand inquisitor 
Sat gazing on the uninvited visitor, 
Till John, the serving man, came to the upper 
Regions, with "Please your honor, come to 
supper." 

" Supper ! good John, to-night I shall not sup, 

Except on that phenomenon — look up." 

" Not sup !" cried John, thinking with con- 
sternation 

That supping on a star must be sfor-vation, 

Or even to batten 

On ignesfatui would never fatten. 

His visage seemed to say, " that very odd is," 
But still his master the same tune ran on, 
" I can't come down ; go to the parlor, John, 

And say I'm supping with the heavenly 
bodies." 

" The heavenly bodies !" echoed John, "ahem!" 

His mind still full of famishing alarms, 
" Zounds ! if your honor sups with them, 
In helping, somebody must make long 
arms." 
He thought his master's stomach was in 
danger, 
But still in the same tone replied the 

knight, 

" Go down, John, go, I have no appetite; 

Say I'm engaged with a celestial stranger." 

Quoth John, not much aufait in such affairs, 

"Wouldn't the stranger take a bit down 

stairs ?" 

"No," said the master, smiling, and no 

wonder, 
At such a blunder, 



TWENTY YEARS AGO. 



261 



" The stranger is not quite the thing you 


" A what ? A rocket, John ! Far from it ! 


think ; 


What you behold, John, is a comet ; 


He wants no meat or drink ; 


One of those most eccentric things 


And one may doubt quite reasonably whether 


That in all ages 


He has a mouth, 


Have puzzled sages 


Seeing his head and tail are joined together. 


And frightened kings ; 


Behold him ! there he is, John, in the south." 


With fear of change, that flaming meteor, 


John looked up with his portentous eyes, 


John, 


Each rolling like a marble in its socket; 


Perplexes sovereigns throughout its range." 


At last the fiery tadpole spies, 


" Do he ?" cried John ; 


And, full of Vauxhall reminiscence, cries, 


" Well, let him flare on, 


" A rare good rocket !" 


/haven't got no sovereigns to change !" 



TWENTY YEARS AGO. 



'VE wandered to the village, Tom, I've 

sat beneath the tree, 
Upon the school-house play-ground, that 
sheltered you and me ; 
X But none were left to greet me, Tom ; and 

few were left to know, 
Who played with us upon the green, some 
twenty years ago. 

The grass is just as green, Tom ; bare-footed 

boys at play 
Were sporting, just as we did then, with 

spirits just as gay. 
But the "master" sleeps upon the hill, which, 

coated o'er with snow, 
Afforded us a sliding-place, some twenty 

years ago. 

The old school-house is altered now ; the 
benches are replaced 

By new ones, very like the same our pen- 
knives once defaced ; 

But the same old bricks are in the wall, the 
bell swings to and fro ; 

Its music's just the same, dear Tom, 'twas 
twenty years ago. 

The boys were playing some old game, 
beneath that same old tree ; 

I have forgot the name just now, — you ve 
played the same with me, 

On that same spot ; 'twas played with knive3, 
by throwing so and so ; 



The loser had a task to do, — there, twenty 
years ago. 

The river's running just as still ; the willows 

on its side 
Are larger than they were, Tom ; the stream 

appears less wide ; 
But the grape-vine swing is ruined now, 

where once we played the beau, 
And swung our sweethearts, — pretty girls, — 

just twenty years ago. 

The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill, close 

by the spreading beech, 
Is very low, — 'twas then so high that we 

could scarcely reach, 
And, kneeling down to get a drink, dear Tom, 

I started so, 
To see how sadly I am changed since twenty 

years ago. 

'Twasby that spring, upon an elm, you know 

I cut your name, 
Your sweetheart's just beneath it, Tom, and 

you did mine the same ; 
Some heartless wretch has peeled the bark, 

'twas dying sure but slow, 
Just as she died, whose name you cut, some 

twenty years ago. 

My lids have long been dry, Tom, but tears 
came to my eyes ; 



262 



THE SEA. 



I thought of her I loved so well, those early- 
broken ties; 

I visited the old church-yard, and took some 
flowers to strow 

Upon the graves of those we loved, some 
twenty years ago. 



Some are in the church -yard laid, some sleep 

beneath the sea ; 
But few are left of our old class, excepting 

you and me ; 
And when our time shall come, Tom, and 

we are called to go, 
I hope they'll lay us where we played, just 

twenty years ago, 



HIGHLAND MARY. 



EOBEET BUENS. 




'E banks and braes and streams around 
The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your 
flowers, 
Your waters never drumlie ! 
There simmer first unfaulds her robes, 
And there the langest tarry ; 
For there I took the last fareweel 
0' my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom, 
As underneath their fragrant shade 

I clasped her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours on angel wings 

Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
For dear to me as light and life 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 



Wi' mony a vow and locked embrace 

Our parting was fu' tender ; 
And pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore oursels asunder ; 
But, 0, fell death's untimely frost, 

That nipt my flower sae early ! 
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, 

That wraps my Highland Mary ! 

pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 

I aft hae kissed sae fondly ! 
And closed for aye the sparkling glance 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ; 
And mouldering now in silent dust 

That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! 
But still within my bosom's core 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 



THE SEA. 



FEOM BYEON'S "CHILDE HAEOLD." 



SfflffiHERE is a pleasure in the pathless 
r^A^ woods, 

There is a rapture on the lonely 

shore, 

There is society where none intrudes 

£ By the deep sea, and music in its roar: 

«1 I love not man the less, but nature more, 

From these our interviews, in which I steal 



From all I may be, or have been before, 
To mingle with the universe, and feel 
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all 
conceal. 

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, — roll ! 

Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 

Man marks the earth with ruin, — his control 



THE SEA. 



263 



Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery- 


They melt into thy yeast of waves, which 


plain 


mar 


The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth 


Alike the Armada's pride or spoils of 


remain 


Trafalgar. 


A shadow of man's ravage save his own, 




When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, 


Thy shores are empires, changed in all 


He sinks into thy depths with bubbling 


save thee ; 


groan, 


Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are 


Without a grave, Unknelled, uncoffined, and 


they? 


unknown. 


Thy waters washed them power while they 




were free, 


His steps are not upon thy paths, — thy 


And many a tyrant since ; their shores 


fields 


obey 


Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise 


The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay 


And shake him from thee ; the vile strength 


Has dried up realms to deserts ; not so thou ; 


he wields 


Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' 


For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, 


play, 




Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, 
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful 

spray 
And howling, to his gods, where haply lies 
His petty hope in some near port or bay, 
And dashest him again to earth ■ — there 

let him lay. 

The armaments which thunderstrike the 

walls 
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake 
And monarchs tremble in their capitals, 
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 
Of lord of thee and arbiter of war, — 
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy 

flake, 



Time writes no wrinkles on thine azure 
" brow ; 
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest 
now. 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's 

form 
Glasses itself in tempests : in all time 
Calm or convulsed, — in breeze, or gale, or 

storm, 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark-heaving ; boundless, endless, and 

. sublime, 
The image of Eternity, — the throne 
Of the Invisible ! even from out thy slime 
The monsters of the deep are made ; each 

zone 



264 



IMAGES. 



Obeys thee : thou goest forth, dread, fathom- 
less, alone. 



And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy 
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward ; from a 
boy 



I wantoned with thy breakers, — they to me 
Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 
Made them a terror, 'twas a pleasing fear ; 
For I was as it were a child of thee, 
And trusted to thy billows far and near, 
And laid my hand upon thy mane, — as I do 
here. 



IMAGES. 



T. B. MACAULAY. 




OGICIANS may reason about abstractions. But the great mass of 
_ J men must have images. The strong tendency of the multitude in 

rail ages and nations to idolatry can be explained on no other prin- 
ciple. The first inhabitants of Greece, there is reason to believe, wor- 
shipped one invisible Deity. But the necessity of having something 
more definite to adore produced, in a few centuries, the innumerable crowd 
of gods and goddesses. In like manner, the ancient Persians thought it 
impious to exhibit the Creator under a human form. Yet even these trans- 
ferred to the sun the worship which, in speculation, they considered due 
only to the Supreme Mind. The history of the Jews is the record of a 
continued struggle between pure Theism, supported by the most terrible 
sanctions, and the strangely fascinating desire of having some visible and 
tangible object of adoration. Perhaps none of the secondary causes which 
Gibbon has assigned for the rapidity with which Christianity spread over 
the world, while Judaism scarcely ever acquired a proselyte, operated more 
powerfully than this feeling. God, the uncreated, the incomprehensible, 
the invisible, attracted few worshippers. A philosopher might admire so 
noble a conception; but the crowd turned away in disgust from words 
which presented no image to their minds. It was before Deity, embodied 
in a human form, walking among men, partaking of their infirmities, 
leaning on their bosoms, weeping over their graves, slumbering in the 
manger, bleeding on the cross, that the prejudices of the Synagogue, and 
the doubts of the Academy, and the pride of the Portico, and the fasces of 
the Lictor, and the swords of thirty legions, were humbled in the dust. 
Soon after Christianity had achieved its triumph, the principle which had 
assisted it began to corrupt it. It became a new Paganism. Patron saints 
assumed the offices of household gods. St. George took the place of Mars. 
St. Elmo consoled the mariner for the loss of Castor and Pollux. The 



GOIN' HOME TO-DAY. 



265 



Virgin Mother and Cecilia succeeded to Venus and the muses. The fasci- 
nation of sex and loveliness was again joined to that of celestial dignity ; 
and the homage of chivalry was blended with that of religion. Eeformers 
have often made a stand against these feelings ; but never with more than 
apparent and partial success. The men who demolished the images in 
cathedrals have not always been able to demolish those which were 
enshrined in their minds. It would not be difficult to show that in politics 
the same rule holds good. Doctrines, we are afraid, must generally be 
embodied before they can exercise a strong public feeling. The multitude 
is more easily interested for the most unmeaning badge, or the most 
insignificant name than for the most important principle. 



GOUT HOME TO-BAY. 



WILL CAKLETON. 




Y busiijess on the jury's done — the 
quibblin' all is through — 
W I've watched the lawyers, right and 
left, and give my verdict true; 
I stuck so long unto my chair, I 
thought I would grow in ; 
And if I do not know myself, they'll 
get me there ag'in. 
now the court's adjourned for good, and 
I have got my pay ; 

loose at last, and thank the Lord, I'm 
goin' home to-day. 

I've somehow felt uneasy, like, since first day 
I come down ; 

It is an awkward game to play the gentle- 
man in town ; 

And this 'ere Sunday suit of mine, on Sunday 
rightly sets, 

But when I wear the stufi a week, it some- 
how galls and frets. 

I'd rather wear my homespun rig of pepper- 
salt and gray — 

I'll have it on in half a jiff, when I get home 
to-day. 

I have no doubt my wife looked out, as well 
as any one — 



As well a3 any woman could — to see that 

things were done : 
For though Melinda, when I'm there, won't 

set her foot out doors, 
She's very careful, when I'm gone, to 'tend 

to all the chores. 
But nothing prospers half so well when I go 

off to stay, 
And I will put things into shape, when I get 

home to-day. 

The mornin' that I come away, we had a little 

bout; 
I coolly took my hat and left, before the show 

was out. 
For what I said was naught whereat she 

ought to take offense ; 
And she was always quick at words, and 

ready to commence. 
But then, she's first one to give up when she 

has had her say ; 
And she will meet me with a kiss, when I go 

home to-day. 

My little boy — I'll give 'em leave to match 

him, if they can ; 
It's fun to see him strut about, and try to be 

a man ! 



266 



THE NATION'S DEAD. 



The gamest, cheeriest little chap you'd ever 

want to see ! 
And then they laugh because I think the 

child resembles me. 
The little rogue ! he goes for me like robbers 

for their prey ; 
He'll turn my pockets inside out, when I get 

home to-day. 

My little girl — I can't contrive how it should 

happen thus — 
That God could pick that sweet bouquet, and 

fling it down to us ! 
My wife, she says that han'some face will 

some day make a stir ; 
And then I laugh, because she thinks the 

child resembles her. 



She'll meet me half-way down the hill, and 

kiss me, anyway ; 
And light my heart up with her smiles, when 

I go home to-day ! 

If there's a heaven upon the earth, a fellow 

knows it when 
He's been away from home a week, and then 

gets back again. 
If there's a heaven above the earth, there 

often, I'll be bound, 
Some homesick fellow meets his folks, and 

hugs 'em all around. 
But let my creed be right or wrong, or be it 

as it may, 
My heaven is just ahead of me — I'm goin' 

home to-day. 



MY CREED. 



ALICE CABY. 



hold that Christian grace abounds 
Where charity is seen ; that when 

We climb to heaven, 'tis on the rounds 
Of love to men. 

I hold all else, named piety, 

A selfish scheme, a vain pretence ; 
Where centre is not, can there be 
Circumference ? 

This I moreover hold, and dare 

Affirm where'er my rhyme may go, — 

Whatever things be sweet or fair, 
Love makes them so. 

Whether it be the lullabies 

That charm to rest the nursing bird, 



Or that sweet confidence of sighs 
And blushes, made without a word. 

Whether the dazzling and the flush 
Of softly sumptuous garden bowers, 

Or by some cabin door, a bush 
Of ragged flowers. 

'Tis not the wide phylactery, 

Nor stubborn fasts, nor stated prayers, 
That makes us saints ; we judge the tree 

By what it bears. 

And when a man can live apart 
From works, on theologic trust, 

I know the blood about his heart 
Is dry as dust. 



, Csffip , 



THE NATION'S DEAD. 



50UR hundred thousand men 
The brave — the good — the true, 
In tangled wood, in mountain glen, 
On battle plain, in prison pen, 
Lie dead for me and you ! 



Four hundred thousand of the brave 
Have made our ransomed soil their 
grave, 

For me and you ! 
Good friend, for me and you I 



UNDER THE VIOLETS. 



267 



In many a fevered swamp, 

By many a black bayou, 
In many a cold and frozen camp, 
The weary sentinel ceased his tramp, 

And died for me and you ! 
From Western plain to ocean tide 
Are stretched the graves of those who died 
For me and you ! 

Good friend, for me and you ! 

On many a bloody plain 

Their ready swords they drew, 
And poured their life-blood, like the rain, 
A home — a heritage to gain, 

To gain for me and you ! 
Our brothers mustered by our side ; 
They marched, they fought, and bravely died 
For me and you ! 

Good friend, for me and you ! 

Up many a fortress wall 

They charged — those boys in blue — 
'Mid surging smoke, the volley'd ball ; 
The bravest were the first to fall ! 

To fall for me and you ! 



These noble men — the nation's pride — 
Four hundred thousand men have died 
For me and you ! 
Good friend, for me and you 1 

In treason's prison-hold 

Their martyr spirits grew 
To stature like the saints of old, 
While amid agonies untold, 

They starved for me and you ! 
The good, the patient, and the tried, 
Four hundred thousand men have died 
For me and you ! 

Good friend, for me and you I 

A debt we ne'er can pay 

To them is justly due, 
And to the nation's latest day 
Our children's children still shall say, 

" They died for me and you ! " 
Four hundred thousand of the brave 
Made this, our ransomed soil, their grave, 
For me and you ! 

Good friend, for me and you ! 



UNDER THE VIOLETS. 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 



oU3o 




ER hands are cold 
No more her 



her face is white ; 
come and go ; 
3p££2? Her eyes are shut to life and light ; — 
■ej Fold the white vesture, snow on 

•£ snow, 

J And lay her where the violets blow. 

But not beneath a graven stone, 
To plead for tears with alien eyes; 

A. slender cross of wood alone 
Shall say, that here a maiden lies 
In peace beneath the peaceful skies. 

And gray old trees of hugest limb 

Shall wheel their circling shadows round 

To make the scorching sunlight dim 

That drinks the greenness from the ground, 
And drop their dead leaves on her mound. 



When o'er their boughs the squirrels run, 
And through their leaves the robins call, 

And, ripening in the autumn sun, 
The acorns and the chestnuts fall, 
Doubt not that she will heed them all. 

For her the morning choir shall sing 
Its matins from the branches high, 

And every minstrel-voice of spring, 
That trills beneath the April sky, 
Shall greet her with its earliest cry. 

When, turning round their dial -track, 
Eastward the lengthening shadows pasa 

Her little mourners clad in black, 

The crickets, sliding through the grass, 
Shall pipe for her an evening mass. 



268 



BEYOND THE SMILING AND THE WEEPING. 



At last the rootlets of the trees 

Shall find the prison where she lies, 

And bear the buried dust they seize 
In leaves and blossoms to the skies. 
So may the soul that warmed it rise ! 



If any, born of kindlier blood, 
Should ask, What maiden lies below ? 

Say only this : A tender bud, 

That tried to blossom in the snow, 
Lies withered where the violets blow. 



THE AMERICAN BOY. 



CAROLINE GILMAN. 




OOK up, my young American ! 
Stand firmly on the earth, 
Where noble deeds and mental power 
Give titles over birth. 



A hallow'd land thou claim'st my boy, 

By early struggles bought, 
Heaped up with noble memories, 

And wide, ay, wide as thought! 

What though we boast no ancient towers 
Where " ivied " streamers twine, 

The laurel lives upon our soil, 
The laurel, boy, is thine. 

And though on " Cressy's distant field," 

Thy gaze may not be cast, 
While through long centuries of blood 

Bise spectres of the past, — 

The future wakes thy dr earnings high, 
And thou a note mayst claim — 

Aspirings which in after times 
Shall swell the trump of fame. 

And when thou'rt told of knighthood's shield, 
And English battles won, 




Look up, my boy, and breathe one word — 
The name of Washington. 



BEYOND THE SMILING AND THE WEEPING. 



jH||EYOND the smiling and the weeping 
I shall be soon ; 
!^2§Ji Beyond the waking and the sleeping, 
Beyond the sowing and the reaping, 



HORATIUS BONAR. 



I shall be soon. 
Love, rest, and home t 
Sweet home I 
Lord, tarry not, hut come. 



CALL ME NOT DEAD. 



269 



Beyond the blooming and the fading 

I shall be soon ; 
Beyond the shining and the shading, 
Beyond the hoping and the dreading, 

I shall be soon. 
Love, rest, and home ! 



Beyond the rising and the setting 

I shall be soon 
Beyond the calming and the fretting, 
Beyond remembering and forgetting, 

I shall be soon. 
Love, rest, and home ! 



Beyond the gathering and the strowing 

I shall be soon ; 
Beyond the' ebbing and the flowing, 



Beyond the coming and the going, 
I shall be soon. 
Love, rest, and home ! 

Beyond the parting and the meeting 

I shall be soon ; 
Beyond the farewell and the greeting, 
Beyond the pulse's fever beating, 

I shall be soon. 
Love, rest, and home ! 

Beyond the frost chain and the fever 

I shall be soon ; 
Beyond the rock waste and the river, 
Beyond the ever and the never, 
I shall be soon. 
Love, rest, and home ! 
Sweet home! 
Lord, tarry not, but come. 



CALL ME NOT BEAD, 



Translated from the Persian of the 12th Century by Edwin Arnold. 




E who dies at Azim sends 
This to comfort all his friends. — 
Faithful friend, it lies, I know, 
Pale and white, and cold as snow ; 
And ye say, " Abdallah's dead " — 
Weeping at the feet and head. 
I can see your falling tears ; 

I can see your sighs and prayers ; 

Yet I smile and whisper this : 

I am not the thing you miss ! 

Cease your tears and let it lie ; 

It was mine, it is not I. 

Sweet friends, what the women lave 

For the last sleep of the grave 

Is a hut which I am quitting, 

Is a garment no more fitting ; 

Is a cage from which, at last 

Like a bird my soul has passed. 

Love the inmate, not the room ; 

The wearer, not the garb — the plume 

Of the eagle, not the bars 

That kept him from the splendid stars. 



Loving friends, rise and dry 
Straightway every weeping eye ! 
What ye lift upon the bier 
Is not worth a single tear. 
'Tis an empty sea-shell— one 
Out of which the pearl is gone. 
The shell is broken, it lies there ; 
The pearl, the all, the soul is here. 
'Tis an earthen jar whose lid 
Allah sealed, the while it hid 
The treasure of his treasury — 
A mind that loved him, let it lie, 
Let the shards be earth once more, 
Since the gold is in his store. 

Allah, glorious! Allah, good ! 
Now thy world is understood — 
Now the long, long wonder ends ; 
Yet we weep, my foolish friends, 
While the man whom you call dead 
In unbroken bliss instead 
Lives and loves you — lost, 'tis true, 
In the light that shines for you ; 



270 



WHAT IS A MINORITY? 



But in the light you cannot see, 
In undisturbed felicity — 
In a perfect paradise, 
And a life that never dies. 



farewell, friends, yet not farewell, 
Where I go, you too shall dwell, 
I am gone before your face — 
A moment's worth, a little space. 
When you come where I have stept, 
Ye will wonder why ye wept ; 
Ye will know, by true love taught, 
That here is all and there is naught. 
Weep awhile, if ye are fain — 



Sunshine still must follow rain ; 
Only not at death, — for death, 
Now I know, is that first breath 
Which our souls draw when we enter 
Life, which is, of all life, centre. 

Be ye certain all seems love, 

Viewed from Allah's throne above ; 

Be ye stout of heart, and come 

Bravely onward to your home ! 

La Allah ilia Allah. Yea ! 

Thou love divine ! Thou love alway { 

He that died at Azim gave 

This to those who made his grave. 



WHA TISA MINORITY'. 



JOHN B. GOUGH. 




'HAT is a minority ? The chosen heroes of this earth have been 
in a minority. There is not a social, political, or religious privi- 
lege that you enjoy to-day that was not bought for you by the 
blood and tears and patient suffering of the minority, It is the 
minority that have vindicated humanity in every struggle. It is 
a minority that have stood in the van of every moral conflict, and achieved 
all that is noble in the history of the world. You will find that each 
generation has been always busy in gathering up the scattered ashes of 
the martyred heroes of the past, to deposit them in the golden urn of a 
nation's history. Look at Scotland, where they are erecting monuments — 
to whom ? — to the Covenanters. Ah, they were in a minority. Read 
their history, if you can, without the blood tingling to the tips of your 
fingers. These were in the minority, that, through blood, and tears, and 
bootings and scourgings — dying the waters with their blood, and staining 
the heather with their gore — fought the glorious battle of religious free- 
dom. Minority ! if a man stand up for the right, though the right be on 
the scaffold, while the wrong sits in the seat of government; if he stand 
for the right, though he eat, with the right and truth, a wretched crust ; if 
he walk with obloquy and scorn in the by-lanes and streets, while the 
falsehood and wrong ruffle it in silken attire, let him remember that 
wherever the right and truth are there are always 



Troops of beautiful, tall angels 



THE LAST STATION. 271 



gathered round him, and God Himself stands within the dim future, and 
keeps watch over His own ! If a man stands for the right and the truth, 
though every man's finger be pointed at him, though every woman's lip be 
curled at him in scorn, he stands in a majority ; for God and good angels 
are with him, and greater are they that are for him, than all they that be 
against him. 




THE LAST STATION. 

^E had been sick at one of the hotels for three or four weeks, and the 
boys on the road dropped in daily to see how he got along, and to 
learn if they could render him any kindness. The brakeman was 
a good fellow, and one and all encouraged him in the hope that he 
would pull through. The doctor didn't regard the case as danger- 
ous ; but the other day the patient began sinking, and it was seen that he 
could not live the night out. A dozen of his friends sat in the room when 
night came, but his mind wandered, and he did not recognize them. 

It was near one of the depots, and after the great trucks and noisy 
drays had ceased rolling by, the bells and the short, sharp whistles of the 
yard-engines sounded painfully loud. The patient had been very quiet for 
half an hour, when he suddenly unclosed his eyes, and shouted : — 

"Kal-a-ma-zoo!" 

One of the men brushed the hair back from the cold forehead, and the 
brakeman closed his eyes, and was quiet for a time. Then the wind 
whirled around the depot and banged the blinds on the window of his room, 
and he lifted his hand, and cried out : — 

" Jack-son ! Passengers going north by the Saginaw Road change 
cars !" 

The men understood. The brakeman thought he was coming east on 
the Michigan Central. The effort seemed to have greatly exhausted him, 
for he lay like one dead for the next five minutes, and a watcher felt for 
his pulse to see if life had not gone out. A tug going down the river 
sounded her whistle loud and long, and the dying brakeman opened his 
eyes, and called out : — 

"Ann Arbor!" 

He had been over the road a thousand times, but had made his last 
trip. Death was drawing a spectral train over the old track, and he was 
brakeman, engineer, and conductor. 

One of the yard engines uttered a shrill whistle of warning, as if the 



272 



THE BURIED FLOWER. 



glare of the headlight had shown to the engineer some stranger in peril, 
and the brakeman called out :-— 

" Yp-silanti ! Change cars here for the Eel Eiver Eoad I" 

" He is coming in fast," whispered one of the men. 

" And the end of his ' run ' will be the end of his life," said a second. 

The dampness of death began to collect on the patient's forehead, and 
there was that ghastly look on the face that death always brings. The 
slamming of a door down the hall startled him again, and he moved his 
head, and faintly said : — 

" Grand Trunk Junction ! Passengers going east by the Grand Trunk 
change cars!" 

He was so quiet after that that all the men gathered around the bed, 
believing that he was dead. His eyes closed, and the brakeman lifted his 
hand, moved his head, and whispered : — 

"De— " 

Not " Detroit," but Death ! He died with the half-uttered whisper on 
his lips. And the headlight on deaths engine shone full in his face, and 
covered it with such pallor as naught but death can bring. 



THE BURIED FLO WEE. 



W. E. AYTOUN. 



jN the silence of my chamber, 

"When the night is still and deep, 
And the drowsy heave of ocean 
Mutters in its charmed sleep, 

Oft I hear the angel voices 

That have thrilled me long ago, — 

Voices of my lost companions, 
Lying deep beneath the snow. 

Where are now the flowers we tended? 

Withered, broken, branch and stem ; 
Where are now the hopes we cherished ? 

Scattered to the winds with them. 

For ye, too, were flowers, ye dear ones ! 
Nursed in hope and reared in love, 



Looking fondly ever upward 
To the clear blue heaven above ; 

Smiling on the sun that cheered us, 
Rising lightly from the rain, 

Never folding up your freshness 
Save to give it forth again. 

0, 'tis sad to lie and reckon 
All the days of faded youth, 

All the vows that we believed in, 
All the words we spoke in truth 

Severed, — were it severed only 
By an idle thought of strife, 

Such as time may knit together ; 
Not the broken chord of life \ 



I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. 



273 



0, I fling my spirit backward, 
And I pass o'er years of pain 

All I loved is rising round me, 
All the lost returns again. 

Brighter, fairer far than living, 
With no trace of woe or pain, 



Robed in everlasting beauty, 
Shall I see thee once again, 

By the light that never fadeth, 
Underneath eternal skies, 

When the dawn of resurrection 
Breaks o'er deathless Paradise. 



UNION AND LIBERTY. 



0. W. HOLMES. 




;LAG of the heroes who left us their 
glory, 
Borne through their battle-fields' 
thunder and flame, 
Blazoned in song and illumined in story, 
Wave o'er us all who inherit their fame. 
Up with our banner bright, 
Sprinkled with starry light, 
Spread its fair emblems from mountain to 
shore, 
While through the sounding sky 
Loud rings the Nation's cry — 
Union and Liberty ! One Evermore ! 

Light of our firmament, guide of our Nation, 
Pride of her children, and honored afar, 

let the wide beams of thy full constellation 
Scatter each cloud that would darken a 
star! 

Empire unsceptred ! what foe shall assail 
thee 
Bearing the standard of Liberty's van ? 



Think not the God of thy fathers shall fail 
thee, 
Striving with men for the birthright of man J 

Yet if, by madness and treachery blighted, 
Dawns the dark hour when the sword thou 
must draw 
Then with the arms to thy million united, 
Smite the bold traitors to Freedom and 
Law! 

Lord of the universe ! shield us and guide us, 
Trusting Thee always, through shadow 
and sun ! 
Thou hast united us, who shall divide us ? 
Keep us, keep us the Many in One ! 
Up with our banner bright, 
Sprinkled with starry light, 
Spread its fair emblems from mountain to 
shore, 
While through the sounding sky 
Loud rings the Nation's cry — 
Union and Liberty ! One Evermore ! 



/ REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. 



THOMAS HOOD. 



REMEMBER, I remember 

The house where I was born, 

The little window where the sun 
Came peeping in at morn. 
18 



He never came a wink too soon, 
Nor brought too long a day ; 

But now I often wish the night 
rLad Dorne my breath away ! 



274 



ROCK ME TO SLEEP. 



I remember, I remember 


My spirit flew in feathers then, 


The roses, red and white, 


That is so heavy now, 


The violets, and the lily-cups, — 
Those flowers made of light ! 


And summer pools could hardly cool 
The fever on my brow ! 


The lilacs where the robin built, 
And where my brother set 

The laburnum on his birth-day, — 
The tree is living yet ! 

I remember, I remember 


I remember, I remember 
The fir-trees dark and high ; 

I used to think their slender tops 
Were close against the sky. 

It was a childish ignorance, 


Where I was used to swing, 


But now 'tis little joy 


And thought the air must rush as fresh 


To know I'm farther off from heaven. 


To swallows on the wing ; 


Than when I was a boy. 




ROCK ME TO SLEEP. 



ELIZABETH AKEES. 



fipiACKWARD, turn backward, Time, 
^|ff|| in your flight, 

£W Make me a child again just for to- 
night ! 
Mother, come back from the echoless 

shore, 
Take me again to your heart as of 
yore; 
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, 
Smooth the few silver threads out of my 

hair ; 
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep ; — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! 



Backwa"^ flow backward, ob, tide of the 
years .' 



I am so weary of toil and of tears, — 

Toil without recompense, tears all in vain, — 

Take them, and give me my childhood 

again ! 
I have grown weary of dust and decay, — 
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away ; 
Weary of sowing for others to reap : — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep! 1 

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, 
Mother, Mother, my heart calls for you ! 
Many a summer the grass has grown green, 
Blossomed and faded, our faces between ; 
Yet, with strong yearning and passionate 

pain, 
Long I to-night for your presence again. 



THE GAMIN. 



275 



Come from the silence so long and so deep ; — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! 

Over my heart, in the days that are flown, 
No love like mother-love ever has shone ; 
No other worship abides and endures, — 
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours ; 
None like a mother can charm away pain 
From the sick soul and the world-weary 

brain. 
Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids 

creep ; 
Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! 

Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with 

gold, 
Fall on your shoulders again as of old ; 



Let it drop over my forehead to-night, 
Shading my faint eyes away from the light ; 
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more 
Haply will throng the sweet visions of 

yore; 
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep ; — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! 

Mother, dear mother, the years have been 

long 
Since I last listened your lullaby song ; 
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem 
Womanhood's years have been only a dream. 
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace, 
With your light lashes just sweeping my face^ 
Never hereafter to wake or to weep ; — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep I 



THE GAMIN. 



VICTOR HUGO. 




j|||ABIS has a child ; the forest has a bird. The bird is called a spar- 
row ; the child is called a gamin. His origin is from the rabble. 

The most terrible embodiment of the rabble is the barricade, and 
the most terrible of barricades was that of Faubourg St. Antoine. 
\ The street was deserted as far as could be seen. Every door and 
J window was closed; in the background rose a wall built of paving 
stones, making the street a cul-de-sac. Nobody could be seen ; nothing 
could be heard; not a cry, not a sound, not a breath. A sepulchre! From 
time to time, if anybody ventured to cross the street, the sharp, low 
whistling of a bullet was heard, and the passer fell dead or wounded. For 
the space of two days this barricade had resisted the troops of Paris, and 
now its ammunition was gone. During a lull in the firing, a gamin, named 
Gavroche, took a basket, went out into the street by an opening, and began 
to gather up the full cartridge-boxes of the National Guards who had been 
killed in front of the barricade. By successive advances he reached a 
point where the fog from the firing became transparent, so that the sharp- 
shooters of the line, drawn up and on the alert, suddenly discovered some- 
thing moving in the smoke. Just as Gavroche was relieving a Grenadier 
of his cartridges a ball struck the body. " They are killing my dead for 
me," said the gamin. A second ball splintered the pavement behind him. 



-276 I LOVE THE MORNING SUNSHINE. 

A third upset his basket. Gavroche rose up straight on his feet, his hair 
in the wind, his hands upon his hips, his eyes fixed upon the National 
Guard, who were firing ; and he sang : 

" They are ugly at Naterre — 'tis the fault of Voltaire ; 
And beasts at Palaeseau — 'tis the fault of Rousseau." 

Then he picked up his basket, put into it the cartridges which had fallen 
out, without losing a single one ; and advancing toward the fusilade, began 
to empty another cartridge-box. Then a fourth ball just missed him 
again ; Gavroche sang : 

"I am only a scribe, 'tis the fault of Voltaire ; 
My life one of woe — 'tis the fault of Rousseau." 

The sight was appalling and fascinating. Gavroche fired at, mocked the 
firing and answered each discharge with a couplet. The National Guards 
laughed as they aimed at him. He lay down, then rose up ; hid himself 
in a door-way, then sprang out; escaped, returned. The insurgents, 
breathless with anxiety, followed him with their eyes ; the barricade was 
trembling, he was singing. It was not a child, it was not a man ; it was 
^a strange fairy gamin, playing hide and seek with Death. 

Every time the face of the grim spectre approached, the gamin snapped 
his fingers. One bullet, however, better aimed or more treacherous than 
~the others, reached the will-o'-the-wisp child. They saw Gavroche totter, 
then fall. The whole barricade gave a cry. But the gamin had fallen 
only to rise again. A long stream of blood rolled down his face. He 
raised both arms in the air, looked in the direction whence the shot came, 
■and began to sing : 

" I am buried in earth — 'tis the fault " 

He did not finish. A second ball from the same marksman cut him 
short. This time he fell with his face upon the pavement and did not stir 
•again. That little great soul had taken flight. 



I LOVE THE MORNING SUNSHINE. 



EOBERT LOWRY. 



LOVE the morning sunshine — 
For 'tis bringing to the singing 

Of the early-matined birds, 

Daylight's treasure, without measure, 

Speaking joy with gentle words. 



I love the morning sunshine — 
For it lightens, warms, and brightens 

Every hillside tinged with gloom ; 
And its power, every hour, 

Calls e'en spirits from their tomb. 



CRADLE BOW 



277 



I love the morning sunshine — 
For its gushing, like the rushing 

Of a molten tide of gold, 
Bipples o'er me and before me, 

And my heart cannot be cold. 

I love the morning sunshine — 
For 'tis telling that the knelling 
Of each cycling day shall cease, 



And the dawning of a morning 
Never ending will bring peace. 

I love the morning sunshine — 
For it lies on Life's horizon, 

Pointing out an untombed swari, 
"Where the spirit shall inherit 

Golden daysprings from the Lord. 



THE AXGEL'S WHISPER. 



SAMUEL LOVEPw. 




And 



BABY was sleeping ; 

Its mother was weeping ; 
For her husband was far on the 
wild raging sea ; 
And the tempest was swelling 
Round the fisherman's dwelling ; 
she cried, " Dermot. darling, 
come back to me!" 



Her beads while she numbered, 

The baby still slumbered, 
And smiled in her face as she bended her knee : 

i; 0, blest be that warning, 

My child, thy sleep adorning. 
For I know that the angels are whispering 
with thee. 



' ' And while they are 

Bright watch o'er thy sleeping, 

0, pray to them softly, my baby, with me 1 
And say thou wouldst rather 
They'd watch o'er thy father ! 

For I know that the angels are whispering 
to thee." 



And 



Said, 



The dawn of the morning 
Saw Dermot returning, 
the wife wept with joy her babe's 
father to see ; 
And closely caressing 
Her child with a blessing 
" I knew that the angels were whisper- 
ing with thee." 



CRADLE SOXG. 



JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND. 




w &m 



iH AT is the little one thinking about ? 
Ij Yery wonderful things, no doubt ; 
^3=**s^% Unwritten histiry ' 

Unfathomed mystery ! 
Yet he chuckles, and crows, and 

nods and winks 
As if his head were as fall of kinks, 
And curious riddles as any sphinx ! 
Warped by colic, ani wet hy tears, 



Punctured by pins, and tortured by fears, 
Our little nephew will lose two years ; 

And he'll never know 

Wnere the summers g 
He need not laugh, for he'll find it so. 

Who can tell what a baby thinks ? 
Who can follow the gossamer links 
By which the manikin feels its way 



278 



THE HERO OF THE COMMUNE. 



Out from the shore of the great unknown, 
Blind, and wailing, and alone, 

Into the light of the day ? 
Out from the shore of the unknown sea, 
Tossing in pitiful agony ; 
Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls, 
Specked with the barks of little souls, — 
Barks that were launched on the other side, 
And slipped from heaven on an ebbing tide ! 

What does he think of his mother's eyes ? 
What does he think of his mother's hair ? 

What of the cradle-roof, that flies 
Forward and backward through the air ? 

What does he think of his mother's breast, 
Bare and beautiful, smooth and white, 
iSeeking it ever with fresh delight, 



Cup of his life, and couch of his rest ? 
What does he think when her quick embrace 
Presses his hand and buries his face 
Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell, 
With a tenderness she never can tell, 

Though she murmur the words 

Of all the birds,— 
Words she has learned to murmur well ? 

Now he thinks he'll go to sleep ! 

I can see the shadow creep 
Over his eyes in soft eclipse, 
Over his brow and over his lips, 
Out to his little finger-tips ! 
Softly sinking, down he goes ! 
Down he goes ' down he goes ! 
See ! he's hushed in sweet repose. 



THE HERO OF THE COMMUNE. 



MARGARET J. PRESTON. 




ARCON! You, you 
Snared along with this cursed crew ? 
(Only a child, and yet so bold, 
Scarcely as much as ten years old !) 
Do you hear ? do you know 
Why the gens d'armes put you 
there, in the row, 
You with those Commune wretches tall, 
With your face to the wall ? 

" Know? To be sure I know! Why not? 

We're here to be shot ; 
And there by the pillar's the very spot, 
Fighting for France, my father fell. 
Ah, well !— 
That's just the way /would choose to fall, 
With my back to the wall !" 

" (Sacre ! Fair, open fight I say, 

Is something right gallant in its way, 

And fine for warming the blood; but 
who 

Wants wolfish work like this to do ? 
Bah ! 'tis a butcher's business !) How f 
(The boy is beckoning to me now : 



I knew that this poor child's heart would 
fail, 

Yet his cheek's not pale :) 

Quick ! say your say, for don't you see 
When the church-clock yonder tolls out Three, 
You are all to be shot ? 
— What ? 
' Excuse you one moment f 0, ho, ho ! 
Do you think to fool a gen d'armes so ?" 

" But, sir, here's a watch that a friend, one 

day, 
(My father's friend) just over the way, 
Lent me ; and if you let me free — 
It still lacks seven minutes of Three — 
I'll come on the word of a soldier's son, 
Straight back into line, when my errand's 

done." 

" Ha, ha ! No doubt of it ! Off ! Begone ! 
(Now, good St. Dennis, speed him on ! 
The work will be easier since hes saved ; 
For I hardly see how I could have braved 
The ardor of that innocent eye, 



THE DUMB-WAITER. 



279 



As he stood and heard, 

While I gave the word, 

Dooming him like a dog to die.)" 

" In time ? Well, thanks, that my desire 
Was granted ; and now I'm ready ; — Fire 
One word ! — that's all ! 



— You'll let me turn my bach to the 
wall?" 

" Parbleu ! Come out of the line, I say, 
Come out! (Who said that his name was 

Ney?) 
Ha ! France will hear of him yet, one day !" 



THE DUMB-WAITER. 



FEEDEEICK S. COZZENS. 




?E have put a dumb-waiter in our house. A dumb-waiter is a good 
thing to have in the country, on account of its convenience. If 
you have company, every thing can be sent up from the kitchen 
without any trouble; and if the baby gets to be unbearable, on 
account of his teeth, you can dismiss the complainant by stuffing 
him into one of the shelves, and letting him down upon the help. 
To provide for contingencies, we had all our floors deafened. In conse- 
quence, you cannot hear anything that is going on in the story below ; 
and when you are in an upper room of the house, there might be a demo- 
cratic ratification-meeting in the cellar, and you would not know it. 
Therefore, if any one should break into the basement, it would not disturb 
us; but to please Mrs. Sparrowgrass, I put stout iron bars on all the lower 
windows. Besides, Mrs. Sparrowgrass had bought a rattle when she was 
in Philadelphia ; such a rattle as watchmen carry there. This is to alarm 
our neighbor, who, upon the signal, is to come to the rescue with his revol- 
ver. He is a rash man, prone to pull trigger first, and make inquiries 
afterward. 

One evening Mrs. S. had retired, and I was busy writing, when it struck 
me a glass of ice-water would be palatable. So I took the candle and a 
pitcher, and went down to the pump. Our pump is in the kitchen. A 
country pump in the kitchen is more convenient ; but a well with buckets 
is certainly most picturesque. Unfortunately our well-water has not been 
sweet since it was cleaned out. 

First, I had to open a bolted door that lets you into the basement hall, 
and then I went to the kitchen door, which proved to be locked. Then I 
remembered that our girl always carried the key to bed with her, and 
slept with it under her pillow. Then I retraced my steps; bolted the 
basement door, and went up into the dining-room. As is always the 



280 THE DUMB-WAITER. 



ease, I found, when I could not get any water I was thirstier than I 
supposed I was. Then I thought I would wake our girl up. Then I con- 
cluded not to do it. Then I thought of the well, but I gave that up on 
account of its flavor. Then I opened the closet doors : there was no water 
* there; and then I thought of the dumb-waiter! The novelty of the idea 
made me smile; I took out two of the movable shelves, stood the pitcher 
on the bottom of the dumb-waiter, got in myself with the lamp ; let myself 
down until I supposed I was within a foot of the floor below, and then let 

We came down so suddenly that I was shot out of the apparatus as if it 
had been a catapult ; it broke the pitcher, extinguished the lamp, and 
landed me in the middle of the kitchen at midnight, with no fire, and the 
air not much above the zero point. The truth is, I had miscalculated the 
distance of the descent, — instead of falling one foot, I had fallen five. My 
first impulse was, to ascend by the way I came down, but I found that im- 
practicable. Then I tried the kitchen door : it was locked. I tried to 
force it open ; it was made of two-inch stuff, and held its own. Then I 
hoisted a window, and there were the rigid iron bars. If I ever felt angry 
at anybody it was at myself, for putting up those bars to please Mrs. 
Sparrowgrass. I put them up, not to keep people in, but to keep people 
out. 

I laid my cheek against the ice-cold barriers, and looked at the sky; not 
a star was visible ; it was as black as ink overhead. Then I thought of 
Baron Trenck and the prisoner of Ohillon. Then I made a noise ! I 
shouted until I was hoarse, and ruined our preserving-kettle with the 
poker. That brought our dogs out in fall bark, and between us we made 
the night hideous. Then I thought I heard a voice, and listened : it was 
Mrs. Sparrowgrass calling to me from the top of the stair-case. I tried 
to make her hear me, but the infernal dogs united with howl, and growl, 
and bark, so as to drown my voice, which is naturally plaintive and ten- 
Ider. Besides, there were two bolted doors and double-deafened floors be- 
tween us. How could she recognize my voice, even if she did hear it ? 

Mrs. Sparrowgrass called once or twice, and then got frightened ; 
the next thing I heard was a sound as if the roof had fallen in, by which I 
understood that Mrs. Sparrowgrass was springing the rattle ! That called 
out our neighbor, already wide awake ; he came to the rescue with a bull- 
terrier, a Newfoundland pup, a lantern, and a revolver. The moment he 
saw me at the window, he shot at me, but fortunately just missed me. I 
threw myself under the kitchen table, and ventured to expostulate with 
him, but he would not listen to reason. In the excitement I had forgotten 



FLORENCE VANE. 



281 



liis name, and that made matters worse. It was not until tie had roused 
up everybody around, broken in the basement door with an axe, gotten 
into the kitchen with his cursed savage dogs and shooting-iron, and seized 
me by the collar, that he recognized me, — and then he wanted me to ex- 
plain it ! But what kind of an explanation could I make to him ? I told 
him he would have to wait until my mind was composed, and then I would 
let him understand the matter fully. But he never would have had the 
particulars from me, for I do not approve of neighbors that shoot at you, 
break in your door, and treat you in your own house as if you were a jail- 
bird. He knows all about it, however, — somebody has told him — some- 
body tells everybody every thing in our village. 



FLORENCE VANE, 



PHILIP P. COOKE. 



LOVED thee long and dearly, 

Florence Vane ; 
My life's bright dream and early 

Hath come again ; 
I renew in my fond vision 

My heart's dear pain, 
My hopes and thy derision, 

Florence Vane ! 

The ruin, lone and hoary, 

The ruin old, 
Where thou did'st hark my story 

At even told, 
That spot, the hues elysian 

Of sky and plain 
I treasure in my vision, 

Florence Vane ! 



Thou wast lovelier than the roses 

In their prime ; 
Thy voice excelled the closes 

Of sweetest rhyme ; 
Thy heart was as a river 

Without a main, 
Would I had loved thee never, 

Florence Vane. 




But fairest, coldest wonder 
Thy glorious clay 

Lieth the green sod under ; 
Alas the day ! 



282 



THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. 



And it boots not to remember 

Thy disdain, 
To quicken love's pale ember, 

Florence Vane ! 

The lilies of the valley 

By young graves weep, 



The daisies love to dally 

Where maidens sleep. 

May their bloom in beauty vying 
Never wane 

Where thine earthly part is lying, 
Florence Vane. 



RING THE BELI SOFTL Y. 




DEXTER SMITH. 



ogSgOME one has gone from this strange 
world of ours, 
No more to gather its thorns with 
its flowers ; 

No more to linger where sunbeams must fade, 
Where on all beauty -death's fingers are laid ; 
Weary with mingling life's bitter and sweet, 
Weary with parting and never to meet, 
Some one has gone to the bright golden shore ; 
Ring the bell softly, there's crape on the door ! 
Ring the bell softly, there's crape on the door ! 

Some one is resting from sorrow and sin, 
Happy where earth's conflicts enter not in, 
Joyous as birds when the morning is bright, 
When the sweet sunbeams have brought us 
their light. 



Weary with sowing and never to reap, 
I Weary with labor, and welcoming sleep, 
! Some one's departed to heaven's bright shore ; 
: Ring the bell softly, there's crape on the door ! 

Ring the bell softly, there's crape on the door ! 

Angels were anxiously longing to meet 
One who walks with them in heaven's bright 

street ; 
Loved ones have whispered that some one 

is blest, — 
Free from earth's trials and taking sweet rest. 
Yes ! there is one more in angelic bliss, — 
One less to cherish and one less to kiss ; 
One more departed to heaven's bright shore ; 
Ring the bell softly, there's crape on the door ! 
Ring the bell softly, there's crape on the door ! 



THE SONG OF THE SHIFT 




THOMAS HOOD. 



^j&ITH fingers weary and worn, 

With eyelids heavy and red, 
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 
Plying her needle and thread — 
Stitch! stitch! stitch! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt, 
And still, with a voice of dolorous 
pitch, 
She sang the " Song of the Shirt !" 

" Work ! work ! work-! 

While the cock is crowing aloof: 
And work — work — work ! 

Till the stars shine through the roof! 



! It's oh ! to be a slave 

Along with the barbarous Turk, 
Where woman has never a soul to save, 
If this is Christian work ! 



" Work — work — work ! 

Till the brain begins to swim ! 
Work — work — work ! 

Till the eyes are heavy and dim ! 
Seam, and gusset, and band, 

Band, and gusset, and seam, 
Till over the buttons I fall asleep, 

And sew them on in my dream ! 



THE WHISTLE. 



283 



H Oh ! men with sisters dear ! 

Oh ! men with mothers and wives ! 
It is not linen you're wearing out, 

But human creatures' lives ! 
Stitch — stitch— stitch ! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt, 
Sewing at once, with a double thread, 

A shkoud as well as a shirt ! 

" But why do I talk of death, 

That phantom of grisly bone ? 
I hardly fear his terrible shape, 

It seems so like my own — 
It seems so like my own, 

Because of the fast I keep : 
God ! that bread should be so dear, 

And flesh and blood so cheap ! 

" "Work — work — work ! 

My labor never flags ; 
And what are its wages ? A bed of straw, 

A crust of bread — and rags : 
A shatter' d roof — and this naked floor — 

A table — a broken chair — 
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank 

For sometimes falling there ! 

" Work — work — work ! 

From weary chime to chime ; 
Work — work — work ! 

As prisoners work for crime ! 
Band, and gusset, and seam, 

Seam, and gusset, and band, 
Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd, 

As well as the weary hand ! 



" Work — work — work ! 

In the dull December light ; 
And work — work — work ! 

When the weather is warm and bright : 
While underneath the eaves 

The brooding swallows cling, 
As if to show me their sunny backs, 

And twit me with the Spring. 

" Oh ! but to breathe the breath 

Of the cowslip and primrose sweet ; 
With the sky above my head, 

And the grass beneath my feet: 
For only one short hour 

To feel as I used to feel, 
Before I knew the woes of want, 

And the walk that costs a meal ! 

" Oh ! but for one short hour ! 

A respite, however brief! 
No blessed leisure for love or hope, 

But only time for grief ! 
A little weeping would ease my heart — 

But in their briny bed 
My tears must stop, for every drop 

Hinders the needle and thread !" 

With fingers weary and worn, 

With eyelids heavy and red, 
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 

Plying her needle and thread : 
Stitch — stitch — stitch ! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; 
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch — 
Would that its tone could reach the rich !- 

She sung this " Song of the Shirt !" 



THE WHISTLE. 




ROBERT STORY. 



OU have heard," said a youth to 
his sweetheart, who stood, 
While he sat on a corn-sheaf, at 

daylight's decline, — 
You have heard of the Banish 

boy's whistle of wood ? 
I wish that that Danish boy's 
whistle were mine." 



" And what would you do with it ? — tell me," 
she said, 
While an arch smile played over her beau- 
tiful face. 
" I would blow it," he answered ; " and then 
my fair maid 
Would fly to my side, and would here take 
her place." 



284 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 



" Is that all you wish it for ? — That may be 


" Yet once more would I blow, and the music 


yours 


divine 


Without any magic," the fair maiden 


Would bring me the third time an exqui- 


cried: 


site bliss : 


"A favor so light one's good nature secures" ; 


You would lay your fair cheek to this brown 


And she playfully seated herself by his 


one of mine, 


side. 


And your lips, stealing past it, would give 




me a kiss." 


" I would blow it again," said the youth, 




" and the charm 


The maiden laughed out in her innocent 


Would work so, that not even Modesty's 


glee — 


check 


" What a fool of yourself with your whistle 


Would be able to keep from my neck your 


you'd make ! 


fine arm" : 


For only consider, how silly 't would be, 


She smiled, — and she laid her fine arm 


To sit there and whistle for — what you 


round his neck. 


might take." 



A SUFI SAINT. 



TRANSLATED FROM THE PERSIAN BY WM. R. ALGER. 



HjIPdT heaven approached a Sufi Saint, 
WM& From groping in the darkness 1 



'Vgjg jrrom groping in tne aarimess late, 
^^^xf And, tapping timidly and faint, 

Besought admission at God's gate. 

Said God, " Who seeks to enter here?" 

'Tis I, dear Friend," the Saint replied, 
And trembling much with hope and fear. 
" If it be thou, without abide." 

Sadly to earth the poor Saint turned, 
To bear the scourging of life's rods ; 



But aye his heart within him yearned 
To mix and lose its love in God's. 

He roamed alone through weary years, 
By cruel men still scorned and mocked, 

Until from faith's pure fires and tears 
Again he rose, and modest knocked. 

Asked God, " Who now is at the door?" 
" It is thyself, beloved Lord," 

Answered the Saint, in doubt no more, 
But clasped and rapt in his reward. 



BUBAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 



WASHINGTON IRVING. 



ilf^N rural occupation there is nothing mean and debasing. It leads a 
man forth among scenes of natural grandeur and beauty ; it leaves 
him to the workings of his own mind, operated upon by the purest 
and most elevating of external influences. The man of refinement, 
therefore, finds nothing revolting in an intercourse with the lower 
orders of rural life, as he does when he casually mingles with the 
lower orders of cities. He lays aside his distance and reserve, and is glad 
to waive the distinctions of rank, and to enter into the honest heartfelt 
enjoyments of common life. Indeed the very amusements of the country 



THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. 



285 




bring men more and more together, and the sound of hound and horn 
blend all feelings into harmony. I believe this is one great reason why 
the nobility and gentry are more popular among the inferior orders in 
England than 
they are in any 
other country ; 
and why the lat- 
ter have endured 
so many exces- 
sive pressures 
and extremities, 
without repining 
more generally 
at the unequal 
distribution of 
fortune and privilege. 

To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society may also be attribu- 
ted the rural feeling that runs through British literature ; the frequent use 
of illustrations from rural life ; those incomparable descriptions of nature 
which abound in the British poets, that have continued down from " The 
Flower and the Leaf " of Chaucer, and have brought into our closets all 
the freshness and fragrance of the dewy landscape. The pastoral writers 
of other countries appear as if they had paid Nature an occasional visit, 
and become acquainted with her general charms ; but the British poets 
have revelled with her — they have wooed her in her most secret haunts — 
they have watched her minutest caprices. A spray could not tremble in 
the breeze — a leaf could not rustle to the ground — a diamond drop could 
not patter in the stream — a fragrance could not exhale from the humble 
violet, nor a daisy unfold its crimson tints to the morning, but it has been 
noticed by these impassioned and delicate observers, und wrought up into 
some beautiful morality. 



THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. 



ELIZA COOK. 



LOVE it, I love it ! and who shall dare | I've bedewed it with tears, I've embalmed 
To chide me for loving that old arm- it with sighs. 

chair ? 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart ; 

I've treasured it long as a sainted prize, Not a tie will break, not a link will start; 



286 



THE PALACE 0' THE KING. 



Would you know the spell ? — a mother sat 

there ! 
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. 

In childhood's hour I lingered near 
The hallowed seat with listening ear ; 
And gentle words that mother would give 
To fit me to die, and teach me to live. 



And I almost worshipped her when she 

smiled, 
And turned from her Bible to bless her 

child. 
Years rolled on, but the last one sped, — 
My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled ! 
I learnt how much the heart can bear, 
When I saw her die in her old arm-chair. 




" In childhood's hour I lingered near 
The hallowed seat with listening ear." 



She told me that shame would never betide 
With truth for my creed, and God for my 

guide ; 
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer, 
As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. 

I sat and watched her many a day, 
When her eyes grew dim, and her locks were 
gray; 



'Tis past, 'tis past ! but I gaze on it now, 
With quivering breath and throbbing brow : 
'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she 

died, 
And memory flows with lava tide. 
Say it is folly, and deem me weak, 
Whilst scalding drops start down my cheek ; 
But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear 
My soul from a mother's old arm-chair. 



THE PALACE 0' THE KING. 



WILLIAM MITCHELL. 



*T'S a bonnie, bonnie warl' that we're 

livin' in the noo, 
An' sunny is the Ian' we aften traivel 

thro'; 
But in vain we look for something to 

which our hearts can cling, 



For its beauty is as naething to the palace 
o' the King. 

We like the gilded simmer, wi' its merry, 
merry tread, 

An' we sigh when hoary winter lays its beau- 
ties wi' the dead: 



TIP'S FIGHT. 



287 



For though bonnie are the snawflakes, an' 

the down on winter's wing, 
It's fine to ken it daurna' touch the palace o' 
the King. 

Then again, I've juist been thinkin 1 that 

when a'thing here's sae bricht, 
The sun in a' its grandeur an' the mune wi' 

quiverin' licht, 
The ocean i' the simmer or the woodland i' 

the spring, 
What maun it be up yonder i' the palace o' 

the King. 

It's here we hae oor trials, an' it's here that 
he prepares 

A' his chosen for the raiment which the ran- 
somed sinner wears, 

An' it's here that he wad hear us, 'mid oor 
tribulations sing, 

" We'll trust oor God wha reigneth i' the 
palace o' the King." 

Though his palace is up yonder, he has king- 
doms here below, 

An' we are his ambassadors, wherever we 
may go ; 

We've a message to deliver, an' we've lost 
anes hame to bring 

To be leal and loyal-heartit i' the palace o' 
the King. 

Oh, it's honor heaped on honor that his cour- 
tiers should be ta'en 

Frae the wand'rin' anes he died for i' this 
warl' o' sin an' pain, 

An' it's fu'est love an' service that the Chris- 
tian aye should bring 



To the feet o' him wha reigneth i' the palace 
o' the King. 

An' let us trust him better than we've ever 

done afore, 
For the King will feed his servants frae his 

ever bounteous store. 
Let us keep closer grip o' him, for time is on 

the wing, 
An' sune he'll come and tak' us to the palace 

o' the King. 

Its iv'ry halls are bonnie, upon which the 
rainbows shine, 

An' its Eden bow'rs are trellised wi' a never 
fadin' vine. 

An' the pearly gates o' heaven do a glorious 
radiance fling 

On the starry floor that shimmers i' the pal- 
ace o' the King. 

Nae nicht shall be in heaven an' nae deso- 
latin' sea, 

An' nae tyrant hoofs shall trample i' the city 
o' the free. 

There's an everlastin' daylight, an' a never- 
fadin' spring, 

Where the Lamb is a' the glory, i' the pal- 
ace o' the King. 

We see oor frien's await us ower yonder at 

his gate: 
Then let us a' be ready, for ye ken it's gettin' 

late. 
Let oor lamps be brichtly burnin' ; let's raise 

oor voice an' sing, 
"Sune we'll meet, to pairt nae mair, i' the 

palace o' the King." 



PIP'S FIGHT. 



CHARLES DICKENS. 




OME and fight," said the pale young gentleman. 

What could I do but follow him ? I have often asked myself 
the question since : but what else could I do ? His manner was so 
final and I was so astonished, that I followed where he led, as if I 
had been under a spell. 



288 PIP'S FIGHT. 



" Stop a minute, though," he said, wheeling round before we had 
got many paces. " I ought to give you a reason for fighting, too. There 
it is ! " In a most irritating manner he instantly slapped his hands 
against one another, daintily flung one of his legs up behind him, pulled 
my hair, slapped his hands again, dipped his head, and butted it into my 
stomach. 

The bull-like proceeding last mentioned, besides that it was unquestion- 
ably to be regarded in the light of a liberty, was particularly disagreeable 
just after bread and meat. I therefore hit out at him, and was going to 
hit out again, when he said, "Aha! Would you?" and began dancing 
backward and forward in a manner quite unparalleled within my limited 
experience. 

" Laws of the game ! " said he. Here he skipped from his left leg on 
to his right. " Eegular rules !" Here he skipped from his right leg on to 
his left. "Come to the ground and go through the preliminaries ! " Here 
he dodged backward and forward, and did all sorts of things, while I 
looked helplessly at him. 

I was secretly afraid of him when I saw him so dexterous; but I felt 
morally and physically convinced that his light head of hair could have had 
no business in the pit of my stomach, and that I had a right to consider it 
irrelevant when so obtruded on my attention. Therefore, I followed him 
without a word to a retired nook of the garden, formed by the junction of 
two walls and screened by some rubbish. On his asking me if I was satis- 
fied with the ground, and on my replying Yes, he begged my leave to ab- 
sent himself for a moment, and quickly returned with a bottle of water 
and a sponge dipped in vinegar. " Available for both," he said, placing 
these against the wall. And then fell to pulling off, not only his jacket 
and waistcoat, but his shirt too, in a manner at once light-hearted, busi- 
ness-like and blood-thirsty. 

Although he did not look very healthy — having pimples on his face, 
and a breaking-out at his mouth — these dreadful preparations quite appalled 
me. I judged him to be about my own age, but he was much taller, and 
he had a way of spinning himself about that was fall of appearance. For 
the rest, he was a young gentleman in a gray suit (when not denuded for 
battle), with his elbows, knees, wrists, and heels considerably in advance of 
the rest of him as to development. 

My heart failed me when I saw him squaring at me with every de- 
monstration of mechanical nicety, and eying my anatomy as if he were 
minutely choosing his bone. I never have been so surprised in my lifo as 
I was when I let out the first blow, and saw him lying on his back, l^ok- 



THE BURIAL OF MOSES. 289 

ing up at me with a bloody nose and his face exceedingly fore- 
shortened. 

But he was on his feet directly, and after sponging himself with a great 
show of dexterity began squaring again. The second greatest surprise I 
have ever had in my life was seeing him on his back again, looking up at 
me out of a black eye. 

His spirit inspired me with great respect. He seemed to have no 
strength, and he never once hit me hard, and he was always knocked 
down; but he would be up again in a moment, sponging himself or drink- 
ing out of the water-bottle, with the greatest satisfaction in seconding 
himself according to form, and then came at me with an air and show that 
made me believe he really was going to do for me at last. He got heavily 
bruised, for I am sorry to record that the more I hit him, the harder I hit 
him ; but he came up again and again and again, until at last he got a bad 
fall with the back of his head against the w T all. Even after that crisis in our 
affairs, he got up and turned round and round confusedly a few times, not 
knowing where I was ; but finally went on his knees to his sponge and 
threw it up : at the same time panting out, " That means you have won." 

He seemed so brave and innocent, that although I had not proposed 
the contest I felt but a gloomy satisfaction in my victory. Indeed, I go so 
far as to hope that I regarded myself, while dressing, as a species of savage 
young wolf, or other wild beast. However, I got dressed, darkly wiping 
my sanguinary face at intervals, and I said, "Can I help you?" and he 
said, "¥o, thankee," and I said, " Good afternoon," and he said, "Same 
to you." 



THE BURIAL OF MOSES. 



MRS. C F. ALEXANDER. 



"And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against Beth-peor; but no man knoweth of his 
sepulchre unto this day." Deut. xxxiv. 6. 




Y Nebo's lonely mountain, 

On this side Jordan's wave, 
In a vale in the land of Moab, 

There lies a lonely grave ; 
But no man dug that sepulchre, 

And no man saw it e'er, 
For the angels of God upturned the 
sod, 

And laid the dead man there. 
19 



That was the grandest funeral 

That ever passed on earth ; 
But no man heard the tramping, 

Or saw the train go forth ; 
Noiselessly as the daylight 

Comes when the night is done, 
And the crimson streak on the 
cheek 

Grows into the great sun, — 



290 



PUTTING UP O' THE STOVE. 



Noiselessly as the spring-time 

Her crown of verdure weaves, 
And all the trees on all the hills 

Open their thousand leaves, — 
Bo, without sound of music, 

Or voice of them that wept, 
Silently down from the mountain crown 

The great procession swept. 

Perchance the bald old eagle, 

On gray Beth-peor's height, 
Out of his rocky eyrie, 

Looked on the wondrous sight. 
Perchance the lion, stalking, 

Still shuns the hallowed spot ; 
For beast and bird have seen and heard 

That which man knoweth not. 

Lo ! when the warrior dieth, 

His comrades in the war, 
With arms reversed, and muffled drum, 

Follow the funeral car. 
They show the banners taken, 

They tell his battles won, 
And after him lead his masterless steed, 

"While peals the minute gun. 

Amid the noblest of the land 

Men lay the sage to rest, 
And give the bard an honored place, 

"With costly marble dressed, 
In the great minster transept, 

"Where lights like glories fall, 
And the choir sings and the organ rings 

Along the emblazoned wall. 



This was the bravest warrior 

That ever buckled sword ; 
This the most gifted poet 

That ever breathed a word ; . 
And never earth's philosopher 

Traced, with his golden pen, 
On the deathless page, truths half so sa.gs 

As he wrote down for men. 

And had he not high honor ? 

The hill-side for his pall, 
To lie in state while angels wait, 

"With stars for tapers tall ; 
And the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes, 

Over his bier to wave ; 
And God's own hand, in that lonely land, 

To lay him in the grave, — 

In that deep grave, without a name, 

"Whence his uncoffined clay 
Shall break again, — wondrous thought!— 

Before the judgment day ; 
And stand, with glory wrapped around, 

On the hills he never trod, 
And speak of the strife that won our life, 

With the incarnate Son of God. 

lonely tomb in Mpab's land ! 

dark Beth-peor's hill ! 
Speak to these curious hearts o2 ours, 

And teach them to be still. 
God hath his mysteries of grace, — 

Ways that we cannot tell ; 
He hides them deep, like the secret sleep 

Of him he loved so well. 



PUTTING UP a THE STOVE: 



OR THE RIME OF THE ECONOMICAL HOUSEHOLDER. 




HE melancholy days have come that 

no householder loves, 
Days of the taking down of blinds 

and putting up of stoves ; 
The lengths of pipe forgotten lie in 

the shadow of the shed, 
Dinged out of symmetry they be 

and all with rust are red ; 



The husband gropes amid the mass that he 

placed there anon, 
And swears to find an elbow -joint and eke a 

leg are gone. 

So fared it with good Mister Brown when 
his spouse remarked: " Behold ! 



PUTTING UP 0' THE STOVE. 



291 



Unless you wish us all to go and catch our 

deaths of cold, 
Swift be yon stove and pipes from out their 

storing place conveyed, 
And to black-lead and set them up, lo ! I 

will lend my aid." 

This, Mr. Brown he trembling heard, I trow 

his heart was sore, 
For he was married many years and had 

been there before, 
And timidly he said, " My love, perchance 

the better plan ,. 
'Twere to hie to the tinsmith's shop and bid 

him send a man?" 

His spouse replied indignantly : " So , you 

would have me then 
To waste our substance upon riotous 'tin- 
smith's journeymen ? 
' A penny saved is twopence earned,' rash 

prodigal of pelf, 
Go ! false one, go ! and I will black and set 

• it up myself." 
When thus she spoke the husband knew that 

she had sealed his doom : 
" Fill high the bowl with Samian lead and 

gimme down that broom," 
He cried ; then to the outhouse marched. 

Apart the doors he hove 
And closed in deadly conflict with his enemy, 

the stove. 

Bound 1. — They faced each other ; Brown, 

to get an opening, sparred 
Adroitly. His antagonist was cautious — on 

its guard. 
Brown led off with his left to where a length 

of stove-pipe stood 
And nearly cut his fingers off. (The stove 

allowed First Blood.) 
Round 2. — Brown came up swearing, in 

Grgeco-Roman style 
Closed with the stove, and tugged and strove 

at it a weary while ; 
At last the leg he held gave way ; flat on his 

back fell Brown, 
And the stove fell on top of him and claimed 
the First Knock-down. 



* * * The fight is done and Brown has won; 

his hands are rasped and sore, 
And perspiration and black lead stream from 

his every pore ; 
Sternly triumphant, as he gives his prisoner 

a shove, 
He cries, "Where, my good angel, shall I put 

this blessed stove?" 
And calmly Mrs. Brown to him she indicates 

the spot, 
And bids him keep his temper and remarks 

that he looks hot, 
And now comes in the sweet o' the day ; the 

Brown holds in his gripe 
And strives to fit a six-inch joint into a five 

inch pipe ; 
He hammers, dinges, bends, and shakes, while 

his wife scornfully 
Tells him how she would manage if only she 



At last the joints are joined, they rear a 
pyramid in air, 

A tub upon the table, and upon the tub a 
chair, 

And on chair and supporters are the stove- 
pipe and the Brown, 

Like the lion and the unicorn, a-fighting for 
the crown ; 

While Mistress Brown she cheerily says to 
him, " I expec' 

'Twould be just like your clumsiness to fall 
and break your neck." 

Scarce were the piteous accents said before 
she was aware 

Of what might be called " a miscellaneous 
music in the air," 

And in wild crash and confusion upon the 
floor rained down 

Chairs, tables, tubs, and stovepipes, anathe- 
mas and — Brown. 

There was a moment's silence — Brown had 

fallen on the cat ; 
She was too thick for a book-mark but too 

thin for a mat, 
And he was all wounds and bruises, from his 

head to his foot, 
And seven breadths of Brussels were ruined 

with the soot. 



292 



USEFUL STUDIES. 



" wedded love, how beautiful, how sweet a 

thing thou art !" 
Up from her chair did Mistress Brown, as she 

saw him falling, start, 
And shrieked aloud as a sickening fear did 

her inmost heart-strings gripe, 
" Josiah Winterbotham Brown, have you 

gone and smashed that pipe ?" 

Then fiercely starts that Mister Brown, as 

one that had been wode 
And big his bosom swelled with wrath, and 

red his visage glowed ; 



Wild rolled his eye as he made reply (and his 

voice was sharp and shrill), 
" I have not, madam, but, by — by — by the 

nine gods, I will !" 
He swung the pipe above his head, he dashed 

it on the floor, 
And that stove-pipe, as a stove-pipe, it did 

exist no more ; 
Then he strode up to his shrinking wife, and 

his face was stern and wan, 
As in a hoarse, changed voice he hissed: 

" Send for that tinsmith's man! " 




USEFUL STUDIES. 



JEREMY TAYLOR. 



plgPEND not your time in that which profits not; for your labor and 
your health, your time and your studies, are very valuable ; and 
it is a thousand pities to see a diligent and hopeful person spend 
himself in gathering cockle-shells and little pebbles, in telling 
sands upon the shores, and making garlands of useless daisies. 
Study that which is profitable, that which will make you useful to 
churches and commonwealths, that which will make you desirable and 



'BIAH CATHCART'S PROPOSAL. 293 

wise. Only I shall add this to you, that in learning there are a variety of 
things as well as in religion : there is mint and cummin, and there are the 
weighty things of the law ; so there are studies more and less useful, and 
everything that is useful will be required in its time : and I may in this 
also use the words of our blessed Saviour, " These things ought you to look 
after, and not to leave the other unregarded." But your great care is to 
be in the things of God and of religion, in holiness and true wisdom, re- 
membering the saying of Origen, " That the knowledge that arises from 
goodness is something that is more certain and more divine than all 
demonstration/' than all other learnings of the world. 



'BIAH CATHCART'S PROPOSAL. 



HENRY WARD BEECHER. 



SipHEY were walking silently and gravely home one Sunday after- 

dUb noon, under the tall elms that lined the street for half a mile. 

-s^ir^ Neither had spoken. There had been some little parish quarrel, 

* and on that afternoon the text was, " A new commandment I 

} write unto you, that ye love one another." But after the sermon 

was done the text was the best part of it. Some one said that 

Parson Marsh's sermons were like the meeting-house, — the steeple was 

the only thing that folks could see after they got home. 

They walked slowly, without a word. Once or twice 'Biah essayed to 
speak, but was still silent. He plucked a flower from between the pickets 
of the fence, and unconsciously pulled it to pieces, as, with a troubled face, 
he glanced at Eachel, and then, as fearing she would catch his eye, he 
looked at the trees, at the clouds, at the grass, at everything, and saw nothing 
— nothing but Eachel. The most solemn hour of human experience is not 
that of Death, but of Life, — when the heart is born again, and from a natural 
heart becomes a heart of Love ! What wonder that it is a silent hour and 
perplexed ! 

Is the soul confused ? Why not, when the divine Spirit, rolling clear 
across the aerial ocean, breaks upon the heart's shore with all the mystery 
of heaven ? Is it strange that uncertain lights dim the eye, if above the 
head of him that truly loves hover clouds of saintly spirits? Why should 
not the tongue stammer and refuse its accustomed offices, when all the world 
—skies, trees, plains, hills, atmosphere, and the solid earth— springs forth in 
new color, with strange meanings, and seems to chant for the soul the 



294 'BIAH CATHC ART'S PROPOSAL. 

glory of that mystic Law with which God has bound to himself his infinite 
realm, — the law of Love ? Then, for the first time, when one so loves that 
love is sacrifice, death to self, resurrection, and glory, is man brought 
into harmony with the whole universe; and, like him who beheld the 
seventh heaven, hears things unlawful to be uttered. 

The great elm-trees sighed as the fitful breeze swept their tops. The 
soft shadows flitted back and forth beneath the walker's feet, fell upon 
them in light and dark, ran over the ground, quivered and shook, until 
sober Cathcart thought that his heart was throwing its shifting network 
of hope and fear along the ground before him. How strangely his voice 

sounded to him, as, at length, 
all his emotions could only 
say, " Rachel, — how did you 
like the sermon ? " 

Quietly she answered, — 
" I liked the text." 
" ' A new commandment 
I write unto you, that ye love 
one another.' Eachel, will 
you help me to keep it ? " 
At first she looked down 
and lost a little color ; then, raising her face, she turned upon him her large 
eyes, with a look both clear and tender. It was as if some painful restraint 
had given way, and her eyes blossomed into full beauty. 

Not another word was spoken. They walked home hand in hand. 
He neither smiled nor exulted. He saw neither the trees, nor the long level 
rays of sunlight that were slanting across the fields. His soul was over- 
shadowed with a cloud, as if God were drawing near. He had never felt 
so solemn. This woman's life had been entrusted to him ! 

Long years,— the whole length of life, — the eternal years beyond, 
seemed in an indistinct way to rise up in his imagination. All he could 
say, as he left her at the door, was — " Rachel, this is forever — forever." 

She again said nothing, but turned to him with a clear and open face, 
in which joy and trust wrought beauty. It seemed to him as if a light fell 
upon him from her eyes. There was a look that descended and covered 
him as with an atmosphere ; and all the way home he was as one walking 
in a luminous cloud. He had never felt such personal dignity as now. 
He that wins such love is crowned, and may call himself king. He did 
not feel the earth under his feet. As he drew near his lodgings, the sun 
went down. The children began to pour forth, no longer restrained. 




THE ENGINEER'S STORY. 



295 



Abiah turned to his evening chores. No animal that night but had rea- 
son to bless him. The children found him unusually good and tender. 
And Aunt Keziah said to her sister, — " Abiah's been goin' to meetin' very 
regular for some weeks, and I shouldn't wonder, by the way he looks, if he 
had got a hope : I trust he ain't deceivin' himself." 

He had a hope, and he was not deceived ; for in a few months, at the 
close of the service one Sunday morning, the minister read from the pul- 
pit : " Marriage is intended between Abiah Cathcart and Kachel Liscomb, 
both of this town, and this is the first publishing of the banns." 



THE ENGINEERS STORY. 



e»fc> 




0, children, my trips are over, 

The Engineer needs rest ; 
|* My hands is shaky ; I'm feeling 
• A tugging pain i' my breast ; 
But here, as the twilight gathers, 

I'll tell you a tale of the road, 
That'll ring in my head forever, 
Till it rests beneath the sod. 



We were lumbering along in the twilight, 

The night was dropping her shade, 
And the " Gladiator " labored — 

Climbing the top of the grade ; 
The train was heavily laden, 

So I let my engine rest, 
Climbing the grading slowly, 

Till we reached the upland's crest. 

I held my watch to the lamplight — 

Ten minutes behind the time ! 
Lost in the slackened motion 

Of the up grade's heavy climb ; 
But I knew the miles of the prairie 

That stretched a level track, 
So I touched the gauge of the boiler, 

And pulled the lever back. 

Over the rails a-gleaming, 

Thirty an hour, or so, 
The engine leaped like a demon, 

Breathing a fiery glow ; 
But to me — ahold of the lever — 

It seemed a child alway, 
Trustful and always ready 

My lightest touch to obey. 



I was proud you know, of my engine, 

Holding it steady that night, 
And my eye on the track before us, 

Ablaze with the Drummond light. 
We neared a well-known cabin, 

Where a child of three or four, 
As the up train passed, oft called me, 

A playing around the door. 

My hand was firm on the throttle 

As we swept around the curve, 
When something afar in the shadow, 

Struck fire through every nerve. 
I sou»ded the brakes, and crashing 

The reverse lever down in dismay, 
Groaning to Heaven — eighty paces 

Ahead was a child at its play ! 

One instant — one awful and only, 

The world flew around in my brain, 
And I smote my hand hard on my forehead 

To keep back the terrible pain ; 
The train I thought flying forever, 

With mad irresistible roll, 
While the cries of the dying, the night-wind 

Swept into my shuddering soul. 

Then I stood on the front of the engine, — 

How I got there I never could tell, — 
My feet planted down on the crossbar, 

Where the cow-catcher slopes to the rail, 
One hand firmly locked on the coupler, 

And one held out in the night. 
While my eye gauged the distance, and 
measured 

The speed of our slackening flight. 



296 



THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 



My mind, thank the Lord ! it was steady ; 

I saw the curls of her hair, 
And the face that, turning in wonder, 

Was lit by the deadly glare. 
I know little more — but I heard it — 

The groan of the anguished wheels, 
And remember thinking — the engine 

In agony trembles and reels. 

One rod ! To the day of my dying 

I shall think the old engine reared back, 
And as it recoiled, with a shudder 

I swept my hand over the track ; 
Then darkness fell over my eyelids, 

But I heard the surge of the train, 
And the poor old engine creaking, 

As racked by a deadly pain. 



They found us they said, on the gravel, 

My fingers enmeshed in her hair, 
And she on my bosom a-climbing, 

To nestle securely there. 
We are not much given to crying — 

We men that run on the road — 
But that night, they said, there were faces, 

With tears on them, lifted to God. 

For years in the eve and the morning 

As I neared the cabin again, 
My hand on the lever pressed downward 

And slackened the speed of the tram. 
When my engine had blown her a greeting, 

She always would come to the door ; 
And her look with a fullness of heaven 

Blessed me evermore. 



THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 



orno 




LORD BYRON. 



HE Assyrian came down like the wolf 
on the fold, 
And his cohorts were gleaming in 

purple and gold ; , 
And the sheen of their spears was 
like stars on the sea 
When the blue wave rolls nightly on 
deep Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest when summer 

is green, 
That host with their banners at sunset were 

seen ; 
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn 

hath blown, 
That host on the morrow lay withered and 

strown. 

For the Angel of Death spread his wings 

on the blast, 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he 



And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly 
and chill. 



And their hearts but once heaved, and for- 
ever grew still. 

And there lay the steed with his nostrils all 

wide, 
But through it there rolled not the breath of 

his pride : 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on 

the turf, 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beaten surf. 

And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 
With the dew on his brow and the rust on 

his mail ; 
And the tents were all silent, the banners 

alone ; 
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their 

wail, 
And the idols are broke in the temples of 

Baal; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by 

the sword, 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the 

Lord! 



DER DRUMMER. 



297 



DER DRUMMER. 



CHAS. F. ADAMS. 



^HO pnts oup at der pest hotel, 

^fflaP Und dakes his oysders on der schell, 
mm&M? Und mit der frauleins cuts a schwell ? 
Der drummer. 




Who vas it gomes indo mine schtore, 
Drows down his pundles on der vloor, 
Und nefer schtops to shut der door ? 
Der drummer. 




Who dakes me py der handt, und say, 
" Hans Pfeiffer, how you vas to-day ?" 
Und goes vor peeseness righdt avay ? 
Der drummer. 



Who shpreads his zamples in a trice, 
Und dells me, " Look, und see how nice?' 
Und says I gets "der bottom price?" 
Der drummer. 




Who dells how sheap der goods vas bought, 
Mooch less as vot I gould imbort, 
But lets dem go as he vas " short?" 
Der drummer. 




'■;>«: 



Who says der tings vas eggstra vine, — 
" Vrom Sharmany, ubon der Rhine," — 
Und sheats me den dimes oudt off nine? 
Der drummer. 



298 



VOICES OF THE DEAD. 



Who varrants all der goots to suit 


Und kiss Katrina in der mout' ? 


Der gustomers ubon his route, 


Der drummer. 


Und ven dey gomes dey vas no goot ? 




Der drummer. 


Who, ven he gomes again dis vay, 




Vill hear vot Pfeiffer has to say, 


Who gomes aroundt ven I been oudt, 


Und mit a plack eye goes avay ? 


Drinks oup mine bier, and eats mine kraut, 


Der drummer. 




VOICES OF THE DEAD. 




JOHN CUMMING. 



*E die, but leave an influence behind us that survives. The echoes 
of our words are evermore repeated, and reflected along the ages. 
It is what man was that lives and acts after him. What he said 
sounds along the years like voices amid the mountain gorges ; and 
what he did is repeated after him in ever-multiplying and never- 
ceasing reverberations. Every man has left behind him influences for 
good or for evil that will never exhaust themselves. The sphere in which he 
acts may be small, or it may be great. It may be his fireside, or it may be a 
kingdom ; a village, or a great nation ; it may be a parish, or broad Europe ; 
but act he does, ceaselessly and forever. His friends, his family, his succes- 
sors in office, his relatives, are all receptive of an influence, a moral influ- 
ence which he has transmitted and bequeathed to mankind ; either a bless- 
ing which will repeat itself in showers of benedictions, or a curse which 
will multiply itself in ever-accumulating evil. 

Every man is a missionary, now and forever, for good or for evil, 
whether he intends and designs it, or not. He may be a blot, radiating his 



VOICES OF THE DEAD. 299 



dark influence outward to the very circumference of society, or he may be 
a blessing, spreading benedictions over the length and breadth of the 
world ; but a blank he cannot be. The seed sown in life springs up in 
harvests of blessings, or harvests of sorrow. Whether our influence be 
great or small, whether it be for good or evil, it lasts, it lives somewhere, 
within some limit, and is operative wherever it is. The grave buries the 
dead dust, but the character walks the world, and distributes itself, as a 
benediction or a curse, among the families of mankind. 

The sun sets beyond the western hills, but the trail of - light he leaves 
behind him guides the pilgrim to his distant home. The tree falls 
in the forest ; but in the lapse of ages it is turned into coal, and our 
fires burn now the brighter because it grew and fell. The coral insect 
dies, but the reef it raised breaks the surge on the shores of great conti- 
nents, or has formed an isle in the bosom of the ocean, to wave with har- 
vests for the good of man. We live and we die ; but the good or evil that 
we do lives after us, and is not " buried with our bones." 

The babe that perished on the bosom of its mother, like a flower that 
bowed its head and drooped amid the death-frosts of time — that babe, not 
only in its image, but in its influence, still lives and speaks in the cham- 
bers of the mother's heart. 

The friend with whom we took sweet counsel is removed visibly from 
the outward eye ; but the lessons that he taught, the grand sentiments 
that he uttered, the holy deeds of generosity by which he was character- 
ized, the moral lineaments and likeness of the man, still survive and ap- 
pear in the silence of eventide, and on the tablets of memory, and in the 
light of morn and noon and dewy eve ; and, being dead, he yet speaks elo- 
quently, and in the midst of us. 

Mahomet still lives in his practical and disastrous influence in the East. 
Napoleon still is France, and France is almost Napoleon. Martin Luther's 
dead dust sleeps at Wittenberg, but Martin Luther's accents still ring 
through the churches of Christendom. Shakspeare, Byron, and Milton,, 
all live in their influence for good or evil. The apostle from his chair, the 
minister from his pulpit, the martyr from his flame-shroud, the statesman 
from his cabinet, the soldier in the field, the sailor on the deck, who all 
have passed away to their graves, still live in the practical deeds that they 
did, in the lives they lived, and in the powerful lessons that they left be- 
hind them. 

" None of us liveth to himself; " — others are affected by that life ; — " or 
dieth to himself ;" — others are interested in that death. Our queen's 
crown may moulder, but she who wore it will act upon the ages which are 



300 THE BAGGAGE-FIEND. 



yet to come. The noble's coronet may be reft in pieces, but the wearer of 
it is now doing what will be reflected by thousands who will be made and 
moulded by him. Dignity, and rank, and riches, are all corruptible and 
worthless ; but moral character has an immortality that no sword-point can 
destroy ; that ever walks the world and leaves lasting influences behind. 

What we do is transacted on a stage of which all in the universe are 
spectators. What we say is transmitted in echoes that will never cease. 
What we are is influencing and acting on the rest of mankind. Neutral 
we cannot be. Living we act, and dead we speak ; and the whole universe 
is the mighty company forever looking, forever listening; and all nature 
the tablets forever recording the words, the deeds, the thoughts, the pas- 
sions of mankind. 

Monuments, and columns, and statues, erected to heroes, poets, orators, 
statesmen, are all influences that extend into the future ages. " The blind 
old man of Scio's rocky isle" still speaks. The Mantuan bard still sings in 
every school. Shakspeare, the bard of Avon, is still translated into every 
tongue. The philosophy of the Stagyrite is still felt in every academy. 
Whether these influences are beneficent or the reverse, they are influences 
fraught with power. How blest must be the recollection of those who, 
like the setting sun, have left a trail of light behind them by which others 
may see the way to that rest which remaineth for the people of God ! 

It is only the pure fountain that brings forth pure water. The good 
tree only will produce the good fruit. If the centre from which all pro- 
ceeds is pure and holy, the radii of influence from it will be pure and holy 
also. Gno forth, then, into the sphere that you occupy, the employments, 
the trades, the professions of social life ; go forth into the high places, or 
into the lowly places of the land ; mix with the roaring cataracts of social 
convulsions, or mingle amid the eddies and streamlets of quiet and domestic 
life ; whatever sphere you fill, carrying into it a holy heart, you will radi- 
ate abound you life and power, and leave behind you holy and beneficial 
influences. 



THE BAGGAGE-FIEND. 




wWAS a ferocious baggage-man, with 
^ Atlantean back, 
%W^f ^ n d biceps upon each arm piled in 
(?/l» a formidable stack, 

That plied his dread vocation beside 
a railroad track. 



Wildly he tossed the baggage round the 

platform there, pellmell, 
And crushed to naught the frail bandbox 

where'er it shapeless fell, 
Or stove the "Saratoga" like the flimsiest 

eggshell. 



NIGHT. 



301 



On ironclads, especially, he fell full ruthlessly, 
And eke the trunk derisively called " Cottage 

by the Sea;" 
And pulled and hauled and rammed and 

jammed the same vindictively, 

Until a yearning breach appeared, or frac- 
tures two or three, 

Or straps were burst, or lids fell oft, or some 
catastrophe 

Crowned his Satanic zeal or moved his dia- 
bolic glee. 

The passengers surveyed the wreck with di- 
verse discontent, 

And some vituperated him, and some made 
loud lament, 

But wrath or lamentation on him were vainly 
spent. 

To him there came a shambling man, sad- 
eyed and meek and thin, 

Bearing an humble carpet-bag, with scanty 
stuff therein, 

And unto that fierce baggage-man he spake, 
with quivering chin : 



" Behold this scanty carpet-bag ! I started a 

month ago, 
With a dozen Saratoga trunks, hat-box, and 

portmanteau, 
But baggage-men along the route have 

brought me down so low. 

" Be careful with this carpet-bag, kind sir," 

said he to him. 
The baggage-man received it with a smile 

extremely grim, 
And softly whispered " Mother, may I go 

out to swim ?" 

Then fiercely jumped upon that bag in wild, 
sardonic spleen, 

And into countless fragments flew — to his 
profound chagrin — 

For that lank bag contained a pint of nitro- 
glycerine. 

The stranger heaved a gentle sigh, and 
stroked his quivering chin, 

And then he winked with one sad eye, and 
said, with smile serene, 

" The stuff to check a baggage-man is nitro- 
glycerine!" 



NIGHT. 




JAMES MONTGOMERY. 



jflGHT is the time for rest; 



How sweet, when labors close, 
To gather round an aching breast 

The curtain of repose, 
Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the 

head 
Down on our own delightful bed ! 



Night is the time for dreams : 

The gay romance of life, 
When truth that is, and truth that seems, 

Mix in fantastic strife ; 
Ah ! visions, less beguiling far 
Than waking dreams by daylight are ! 

Night is the time for toil : 
To plough the classic field, 



Intent to find the buried spoil 

Its wealthy furrows yield ; 
Till all is ours that sages taught, 
That poets sang, and heroes wrought. 

Night is the time to weep : 

To wet with unseen tears 
Those graves of Memory, where sleep 

The joys of other years ; 
Hopes, that were Angels at their birth, 
But died when young, like things of earth. 

Night is the time to watch : 

O'er ocean's dark expanse, 
To hail the Pleiades, or catch 

The full moon's earliest glance, 
That brings into the homesick mind 
All we have loved and left behind. 



302 



NOBODY'S CHILD. 



Night is the time for care : 
Brooding on hours misspent, 

To see the spectre of Despair 
Come to our lonely tent; 

Like Brutus, midst his slumbering host, 

Summoned to die by Cassar's ghost. 

Night is the time to think : 
When, from the eye, the soul 

Takes flight ; and on the utmost brink 
Of yonder starry pole 

Discern beyond the abyss of night 

The dawn of uncreated light. 



Night is the time to pray : 

Our Saviour oft withdrew • 
To desert mountains far away ; 

So will his followers do, 
Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, 
And commune there alone with God. 

Night is the time for Death : 

When all around is peace, 
Calmly to yield the weary breath, 

From sin and suffering cease, 
Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign 
To parting friends ; — such death be mine. 




NOBODY S CHILD. 



PHILA H. CASE. 



*m .... 

c^^SLONE, in the dreary, pitiless street, 
vA$J& With my torn old dress and bare 

JP^f cold feet - 

d^ All day I wandered to and fro, 

? Hungry and shivering and nowhere 

to go ; 
The night's coming on in darkness 
and dread, 
And the chill sleet beating upon my bare 

head ; 
Oh ! why does the wind blow upon me so 

wild ? 
Is it because I'm nobody's child ? 

Just over the way there's a flood of light, 
And warmth and beauty, and all things 

bright ; 
Beautiful children, in robes so fair, 
Are caroling songs in rapture there. 



1 wonder if they, in their blissful glee, 
Would pity a poor little beggar like me, 
Wandering alone in the merciless street, 
Naked and shivering and nothing to eat. 

Oh ! what shall I do when the night comes 

down 
In its terrible blackness all over the town.? 
Shall I lay me down 'neath the angry sky, 
On the cold hard pavements alone to die ? 
When the beautiful children their prayers 

have said, 
And mammas have tucked them up snugly 

in bed. 
No dear mother ever upon me smiled — 
Why is it, I wonder, that I'm nobody's child! 

i No father, no mother, no sister, not one 



THE GOLDEN CITY. 



303 



In all the world loves me ; e'en the little dogs 
run 

When I wander too near them ; 'tis won- 
drous to see, 

How everything shrinks from a beggar like 
me ! 

Perhaps 'tis a dream; but, sometimes, when 
I lie 

Gazing far up in the dark blue sky, 

Watching for hours some large bright star, 

I fancy the beautiful gates are ajar, 

And a host of white-robed, nameless things, 
Come fluttering o'er me in gilded wings; 
A hand that is strangely soft and fair 



Caresses gently my tangled hair, 

And a voice like the carol of some wild bird 

The sweetest voice that was ever heard — 

Calls me many a dear pet name, 

Till my heart and spirits are all aflame ; 

And tells me of such unbounded love, 
And bids me come up to their home above, 
And then, with such pitiful, sad surprise, 
They look at me with their sweet blue eyes, 
And it seems to me out of the dreary night, 
I am going up to the world of light, 
And away from the hunger and storms so 

wild — 
I am sure I shall then be somebody's child. 



THE GOLDEN CITY. 



JOHN BUNYAN. 




OpOW just as the gates were opened to let in the men, I looked in after 

them, and behold the city shone like the sun ; the streets, also 

were paved with gold, and in them walked many men with crowns 

on their heads, palms in their hands, and golden harps, to sing 

praises withal. 

There were also of them that had wings, and they answered one 
another without intermission, saying, " Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord." And 
after that they shut up the gates ; which when I had seen, I wished myself 
among them. 

Now, while I was gazing upon all these things, I turned my head to 
look back, and saw Ignorance coming up to the river side ; but he soon 
got over, and that without half the difficulty which the other two men 
met with. For it happened that there was then in that place one Vain- 
Hope, a ferryman, that with his boat helped him over ; so he, as the other, 
I saw, did ascend the hill, to come up to the gate, only he came alone ; 
neither did any man meet him with the least encouragement. When he was 
coming up to the gate, he looked up to the writing that was above, and then 
began to knock, supposing that entrance should have been quickly admin- 
istered to him : but he was asked by the men that looked over the top of 
the gate, " Whence come you, and what would you have ?" . . He answered, 
" I have eat and drank in the presence of the King, and he has taught in 



304 



THE SONG OF THE FORGE. 



our streets." Then they asked for his certificate, that they might go in 
and show it to the King ; so he fumbled in his bosom for one, and found 
none. Then said they, " You have none !" but the man answered never a 
word. So they told the King, but he would not come down to see him, 
but commanded the two shining ones that conducted Christian and Hope- 
ful to the city to go out and take Ignorance, and bind him hand and foot, 
and have him away. Then they took him up and carried him through the 
air to the door that I saw on the side of the hill, and put him in there. 
Then I saw that there was a way to hell, even from the gates of heaven, 
as well as from the City of Destruction. " So I awoke. It was a dream." 




THE SONG OF THE FORGE. 



tLANG, clang ! the massive anvils ring ; 
Clang, clang ! a hundred hammers 

swing ; 
Like the thunder-rattle of a tropic sky, 
The mighty blows still multiply, — 
¥ Clang, clang! 

| Say, brothers of the dusky brow, 
What are your strong arms forging now ? 

Clang, clang ! — we forge the coulter now,— 

The coulter of the kindly plough. 

Sweet Mary mother, bless our toil ! 

May its broad furrow still unbind 

To genial rains, to sun and wind, 

The most benignant soil ! 



Clang, clang ! — our coulter's course shall be 
On many a sweet and sheltered lea, 
By many a streamlet's silver tide ; 
Amidst the song of morning birds, 
Amidst the low of sauntering herds, 
Amidst soft breezes, which do stray 
Through woodbine hedges and sweet May, 
Along the green hill's side. 

When regal Autumn's bounteous hand 
With wide-spread glory clothes the land, — 
When to the valleys, from the brow 
Of each resplendent slope, is rolled 
A ruddy sea of living gold, — 
We bless, we bless the plough. 



DAVID'S LAMENT FOR ABSALOM. 



305 



Clang, clang ! — again, my mates, what grows 
Beneath the hammer's potent blows? 
Clink, clank ! — we forge the giant chain, 
Which bears the gallant vessel's strain 
Midst stormy winds and adverse tides ; 
Secured by this, the good ship braves 
The rocky roadstead, and the waves 
Which thunder on her sides. 

Anxious no more, the merchant sees 
The mist drive dark before the breeze, 
The storm-cloud on the hill ; 
Calmly he rests, — though far away, 
In boisterous climes, his vessel lay, — 
Reliant on our skill. 



Say on what sands these links shall 
Fathoms beneath the solemn deep ? 
By Afric's pestilential shore ; 
By many an iceberg, lone and hoar 
By many a balmy western isle, 
Basking in spring's perpetual smile : 
By stormy Labrador. 



Say, shall they feel the vessel reel, 

When to the battery's deadly peal 

The crashing broadside makes reply ; 

Or else, as at the glorious Nile, 

Hold grappling ships, that strive the while 

For death or victory ? 



Hurrah ! — cling, clang ! — once more, what 
glows, 

Dark brothers of the forge, beneath 
The iron tempest of your blows, 

The furnace's red breath ? 

Clang, clang ! — a burning torrent, clear 
And brilliant of bright sparks, is poured 

Around, and up in the dusky air, 
As our hammers forge the sword. 

The sword ! — a name of dread ! yet when 
Upon the freeman's thigh 'tis bound, — 
While for his altar and his hearth, 
While for the land that gave him birth, 
The war-drums roll, the trumpets sound, — 
How sacred is it then ! 

Whenever for the truth and right 
It flashes in the van of fight, — 
Whether in some wild mountain pass, 
As that where fell Leonidas ; 
Or on some sterile plain and stern, 
A Marston or a Bannockburn ; 
Or amidst crags and bursting rills, 
The Switzer's Alps, gray Tyrol's hills ; 
Or as, when sunk the Armada's pride, 
It gleams above the stormy tide, — 
Still, still, whene'er the battle word 
Is liberty, when men do stand 
For justice and their native land, — 
Then Heaven bless the sword ! 



DA VID'S LAMENT FOR ABSALOM. 




N. P. WILLIS. 



|HE waters slept. Night's silvery veil 
hung low 



On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies 

curled 
Their glassy rings beneath it, like 
+ the still, 

J Unbroken beating of the sleeper's 

pulse. 
The reeds bent down the stream : the willow 

leaves 
With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide. 
Forgot the lifting winds ; and the long stems 
20 



Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse 
Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way, 
And leaned, in graceful attitude, to rest. 
How strikingly the course of nature tells 
By its light heed of human suffering, 
That it was fashioned for a happier world. 

King David's limbs were weary. He had 
fled 
From far Jerusalem : and now he stood 
With his faint people, for a little space. 
Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind 



306 



DAVIDS LAMENT FOR ABSALOM. 



Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow, 
To its refreshing breath ; for he had worn 
The mourner's covering, and had not felt 
That he could see his people until now. 
They gathered round him on the fresh green 

bank 
And spoke their kindly words: and as the 



Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them 

there, 
And bowed his head upon his hands to pray. 
Oh ! when the heart is full, — when bitter 

thoughts 
Come crowding thickly up for utterance, 
And the poor common words of courtesy, 
Are such a very mockery — how much 
The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer ! 
He prayed for Israel : and his voice went up 
Strongly and fervently. He prayed for those, 
Whose love had been his shield : and his 

deep tones 
Grew tremulous. But, oh ! for Absalom, — 
For his estranged, misguided Absalom, — 
The proud bright being who had burst away 
In all his princely beauty, to defy 
The heart that cherished him — for him he 

poured 
In agony that would not be controlled 
Strong supplication, and forgave him there, 
Before his God, for his deep sinfulness. 



The pall was settled. He who slept beneath 
Was straightened for the grave : and as the 

folds 
Sank to the still proportions, they betrayed 
The matchless symmetry of Absalom. 
His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls 

Were floating round the tassels as they 

swayed 
To the admitted air, as glossy now 
As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing 
The snowy fingers of Judea's girls. 
His helm was at his feet : his banner soiled 
With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid, 
Reversed, beside him ; and the jeweled hilt 
Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade, 
Rested like mockery on his covered brow. 
The soldiers of the king trod to and fro, 



Clad in the garb of battle ; and their chief, 
The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier, 
And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly, 
As if he feared the slumberer might stir. 
A slow step startled him. He grasped hia 

blade 
As if a trumpet rang : but the bent form 
Of David entered, and he gave command 
In a low tone to his few followers, 
And left him with his dead. The King stood 

still 
Till the last echo died : then, throwing off 
The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back 
The pall from the still features of his child, 
He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth 
In the resistless eloquence of woe : 

"Alas! my noble boy! that thou should'st 
die, — 
Thou who wert made so beautifully fair ! 
That death should settle in thy glorious eye, 
And leave his stillness in this clustering 
hair — 
How could he mark thee for the silent tomb, 
My proud boy, Absalom ! 

" Cold is thy brow, my son ! and I am chill 

As to my bosom I have tried to press thee — 
How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, 
Like a rich harp string, yearning to caress 
thee — 
And hear thy sweet ' My father' from these 
dumb 
And cold lips, Absalom ! 

" The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the 
gush 
Of music, and the voices of the young : 
And life will pass me in the mantling blush, 
And the dark tresses to the soft winds 
flung, — 
But thou no more with thy sweet voice shalt 
come 
To meet me, Absalom ! 

" And, oh ! when I am stricken, and my heart 
Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be 
broken, 
How will its love for thee, as I depart, 
Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep 
token ! 



RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHRISTMAS TREE. 



307 



It were so sweet, amid death's gathering 
gloom, 
To see thee, Absalom ! 

" And now farewell. 'Tis hard to give thee 
up, 
With death so like a gentle slumber on 
thee ; 
And thy dark sin — oh ! I could drink the 
cup 
If from this woe its bitterness had won 
thee. 



May God have called thee, like a wanderer, 
home, 
My lost boy, Absalom !" 

He covered up his face, and bowed himself 
A moment on his child ; then giving him 
A look of melting tenderness, he clasped 
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer : 
And as if strength were given him of God, 
He rose up calmly and composed the pall 
Firmly and decently, — and left him there, 
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep. 



RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHRISTMAS TREE. 



CHAELES DICKENS. 



HAVE been looking on, this evening, at a merry company of children 
assembled round that pretty German toy, a Christmas tree. 

Being now at home again, and alone, the only person in the house 
awake, my thoughts are drawn back, by a fascination which I do 
not care to resist, to my own childhood. Straight in the middle of 
the room, cramped in the freedom of its growth by no encircling walls 
or soon-reached ceiling, a shadowy tree arises ; and, looking up into the 
dreamy brightness of its top, — for I observe in this tree the singular 
property that it appears to grow downward towards the earth, — I look 
into my youngest Christmas recollections. 

All toys at first I find. But upon the branches of the tree lower 
down, how thick the books begin to hang ! Thin books, in themselves, at 
first, but many of them, with deliciously smooth covers of bright red or 
green. What fat black letters to begin with ! 

" A was an archer, and shot at a frog." Of course he was. He was 
an apple-pie also, and there he is! He was a good many things in his 
time, was A, and so were most of his friends, except X, who had so little 
versatility that I never knew him to get beyond Xerxes or Xantippe : like 
Y, who was always confined to a ■ yacht or a yew-tree ; and Z, condemned 
forever to be a zebra or a zany. 

But now the very tree itself changes, and becomes a bean-stalk, — the 

marvelous bean-stalk by which Jack climbed up to the giant's house. 

Jack, — how noble, with his sword of sharpness and his shoes of swiftness ! 

Good for Christmas- time is the ruddy color of the cloak in which the 



308 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHRISTMAS TREE. 

tree mailing a forest of itself for her to trip through with her basket, 
Little Red Riding-Hood comes to me one Christmas eve, to give me infor- 
mation of the cruelty and treachery of that dissembling wolf who ate her 
grandmother, without making any impression on his appetite, and then ate 
her, after making that ferocious joke about his teeth. She was my first 
love. I felt that if I could have married Little Red Riding-Hood I should 
have known perfect bliss. But it was not to be, and there was nothing for 
it but to look out the wolf in the Noah's Ark there, and put him late in 
the procession, on the table, as a monster who was to be degraded. 

Oh, the wonderful Noah's Ark ! It was not found seaworthy when 
put in a washing-tub, and the animals were crammed in at the roof, and 
needed to have their legs well shaken down before they could be got in 
even there ; and then ten to one but they began to tumble out at the door, 
which was but imperfectly fastened with a wire latch ; but what was that 
against it ? 

Consider the noble fly, a size or two smaller than the elephant ; the 
lady-bird, the butterfly, — all triumphs of art ! consider the goose, whose 
feet were so small, and whose balance was so indifferent that he usually 
tumbled forward and knocked, down all the animal creation ! consider Noah 
and his family, like idiotic tobacco-stoppers ; and how the leopard stuck to 
warm little fingers ; and how the tails of the larger animals used gradually 
to resolve themselves into frayed bits of string. 

Hush ! Again a forest, and somebody up in a tree, — not Robin Hood, 
not Valentine, not the Yellow Dwarf, — I have passed him and all Mother 
Bunch's wonders without mention, — but an Eastern King with a glittering 
scimitar and turban. It is the setting in of the bright Arabian Nights. 

Oh, now all common things become uncommon and enchanted to 
me ! All lamps are wonderful ! all rings are talismans ! Common flower- 
pots are full of treasure, with a little earth scattered on the top ; trees are 
for Ali Baba to hide in ; beefsteaks are to throw down into the Valley of 
Diamonds, that the precious stones may stick to them, and be carried by 
the eagles to their nests, whence the traders, with loud cries, will scare 
them. All the dates imported come from the same tree as that unlucky 
one with whose shell the merchant knocked out the eye of the genii's 
invisible son. All olives are of the same stock of that fresh fruit, con- 
cerning which the Commander of the Faithful overheard the boy conduct 
the fictitious trial of the fraudulent olive-merchant. Yes, on every object 
that I recognize among the upper branches of my Christmas tree I see 
this fairy light ! 

But hark ! the Waits are playing, and they break my childish sleep ! 



THE CREEDS OF THE BELLS. 



309 



"What images do I associate with the Christmas music as I see them set 
forth on the Christmas tree ! Known before all the others, keeping far apart 
from all the others, they gather round my little bed. An angel, speaking 
to a group of shepherds in a field ; some travelers, with eyes uplifted, fol- 
lowing a star ; a baby in a manger ; a child in a spacious temple, talking 
with grave men : a solemn figure with a mild and beautiful face, raising a 
dead girl by the hand ; again, near a city gate, calling back the son of a 
widow on his bier, to life; a crowd of people looking through the opened 
roof of a chamber where he sits, and letting down a sick person on a bed, 
with ropes ; the same, in a tempest, walking on the waters ; in a ship, 
again, on a sea-shore, teaching a great multitude ; again, with a child upon 
his knees, and other children around ; again, restoring sight to the blind, 
speech to the dumb, hearing to the deaf, health to the sick, strength to the 
lame, knowledge to the ignorant ; again, dying upon a cross, watched by 
armed soldiers, a darkness coming on, the earth beginning to shake, and 
only one voice heard, " Forgive them, for they know not what they do !" 

Encircled by the social thoughts of Christmas time, still let the 
benignant figure of my childhood stand unchanged ! In every cheerful 
image and suggestion that the season brings, may the bright star that 
rested above the poor roof be the star of all the Christian world ! 

A moment's pause, vanishing tree, of which the lower boughs are 
dark to me yet, and let me look once more. I know there are blank spaces 
on thy branches, where eyes that I have loved have shone and smiled, from 
which they are departed. But, far above, I see the Eaiser of the dead girl 
and the widow's son, — and God is good ! 



THE CREEDS OF THE BELLS. 



GEORGE W. BUNGAY. 




|OW sweet the chime of the Sabbath 
bells ! 
Each one its creed in music tells, 
In tones that float upon the air, 
As soft as song, as pure as prayer ; 
And I will put in simple rhyme 
The language of the golden chime ; 
My happy heart with rapture swells 
Responsive to the bells, sweet bells. 

" In deeds of love excel ! excel !" 
Chimed out from ivied towers a bell ; 



" This is the church not built on sands, 
Emblem of one not built with hands ; 
Its forms and sacred rights revere, 
Come worship here ! come worship here ! 
In rituals and faith excel !" 
Chimed out the Episcopalian bell. 

" Oh heed the ancient landmarks well!" 
In solemn tones exclaimed a bell ; 
" No progress made by mortal man 
Can change the just eternal plan : 



310 



THE CREEDS OF THE BELLS. 



With God there can be nothing new ; 


Repent, believe, have faith, and then 


Ignore the false, embrace the true, 


Be saved, and praise the Lord, Amen ! 


While all is well ! is well ! is well !" 


Salvation's free, we tell ! we tell !" 


Pealed out the good old Dutch church bell. 


Shouted the Methodistic bell. 


" Ye purifying waters swell !" 


" In after life there is no hell !" 


In mellow tones rang out a bell ; 


In raptures rang a cheerful bell ; 


" Though faith alone in Christ can save, 


" Look up to heaven this holy day, 


Man must be plunged beneath the wave, 


Where angels wait to lead the way ; 


To show the world unfaltering faith 


There are no fires, no fiends to blight 


In what the sacred scripture saith : 


The future life ; be just and right. 


swell ! ye rising waters, swell !" 


No hell ! no hell ! no hell ! no hell !" 


Pealed out the clear-toned Baptist bell. 


Rang out the Universalist bell. 




" The Pilgrim Fathers heeded well 


jJPf" '"'i',,""' lj|k 


My cheerful voice," pealed forth a bell; 


I'll , ii 1 " ■ ■ . ii\i/i> " 


" No fetters here to clog the soul ; 




No arbitrary creeds control 


m ' raHfl 


The free heart and progressive mind, 


H M'l 


That leave the dusty past behind. 


H MI 


Speed well, speed well, speed well, speed 


m IS ii 


well !" 


B Pi 


Pealed out the Independent bell. 


v, J S 


" No pope, no pope, to doom to hell !" 


illHHiliHHIII^^H^B 


The Protestant rang out a bell ; 




" Great Luther left his fiery zeal 




Within the hearts that truly feel 


*' Not faith alone, but works as well, 


That loyalty to God will be 


Must test the soul !" said a soft bell ; 


The fealty that makes man free. 


" Come here and cast aside your load, 


No images where incense fell !" 


And work your way along the road, 


Rang out old Martin Luther's bell. 


With faith in God, and faith in man, 




And hope in Christ, where hope began ; 


" All hail, ye saints in heaven that dwell 


Do well ! do well ! do well ! do well ;" 


Close by the cross !" exclaimed a bell ; 


Rang out the Unitarian bell. 


" Lean o'er the battlements of bliss, 




And deign to bless a world like this ; 


" Farewell ! farewell! base world, farewell J" 


Let mortals kneel before this shrine — 


In touching tones exclaimed a bell ; 


Adore the water and <the wine ! 


" Life is a boon, to mortals given, 


All hail ye saints, the chorus swell !" 


To fit the soul for bliss in heaven ; 


Chimed in the Roman Catholic bell. 


Do not invoke the avenging rod, 




Come here and learn the way to God ; 


"Ye workers who have toiled so well, 


Say to the world farewell ! farewell !" 


To save the race !" said a sweet bell ; 


Pealed forth the Presbyterian bell. 


" With pledge, and badge, and banner, come, 




Each brave heart beating like a drum ; 


«' To all the truth we tell ! we tell !" 


Be royal men of noble deeds, 


Shouted in ecstacies a bell ; 


For love is holier than creeds ; 


" Come all ye weary wanderers, see ! 


Drink from the well, the well, the well !" 


Our Lord has made salvation free ! 


In rapture rang the Temperance bell. 



HANS AND FRITZ. 



311 




HANS AND FRITZ. 



CHARLES F. ADAMS. 




ANS and Fritz were two Doutschers 
who lived side by side, 
Remote from the world, its deceit 

and its pride : 
"With their pretzels and beer the 
spare moments were spent, 
And the fruits of their labor were peace 
and content. 



Hans purchased a horse of a neighbor one 

day, 
And, lacking a part of the Odd, — as they 

say, — 
Made a call upon Fritz to solicit a loan 
To help him to pay for his beautiful roan. 

Fritz kindly consented the money to lend, 



KORNER'S SWORD SONG. 



And gave the required amount to his friend ; 
Remarking, — his own simple language to 

quote, — 
" Berhaps it vas bedder ve make us a note." 

The note was drawn up in their primitive 
way, — 

"I, Hans, gets from Fritz feefty tollars to- 
day ;" 

When the question arose, the note being made, 

" Vich von holds dot baper until it vas baid ?" 

"You geeps dot," says Fritz, "und den you 

vill know 
You owes me dot money." Says Hans, " Dot 

ish so : 
Dot makes me remempers I haf dot to bay, 



Und I prings you der note und der money 
some day." 

A month had expired, when Hans, as agreed, 

Paid back the amount, and from debt he was 
freed. 

Says Fritz, " Now dot settles us." Hans re- 
plies, " Yaw : 

Now who dakes dot baper accordings by 
law?" 

"I geeps dot now, aind't it?" says Fritz; 

"den you see, 
I alvays remempers you paid dot to me." 
Says Hans, "Dot ish so: it vas now shust so 

blain, 
Dot I knows vot to do ven I porrows again." 



KORNER'S SWORD SONG. 



Completed one hour before he fell on the battle-field, August 26, 1813. 




§|WORD at my left side gleaming ! 
Why is thy keen glance, beaming, 
So fondly bent on mine ? 
I love that smile of thine ! 
Hurrah ! 

" Borne by a trooper daring, 
My looks his fire glance wearing, 
I arm a freeman's hand : 
This well delights thy band ! 
Hurrah !" 



Ay, good sword, free I wear thee ; 

And, true heart's love, I bear thee, 
Betrothed one, at my side, 
As my dear, chosen bride ! 
Hurrah ! 

" To thee till death united, 

Thy steel's bright life is plighted ; 

Ah, were my love but tried ! 

When wilt thou wed thy bride ? 
Hurrah ! " 

The tempest's festal warning 
Shall hail our bridal morning ; 



When loud the cannon chide, 
Then clasp I my loved bride ! 
Hurrah ! 

" joy, when thine arms hold me ! 
I pine until they fold me. 

Come to me ! bridegroom, come ! 

Thine is my maiden bloom. 
Hurrah !" 

Why, in thy sheath upspringing, 
Thou wild, dear steel, art ringing ? 

Why clanging with delight, 

So eager for the fight ? 

Hurrah J 

" Well may thy scabbard rattle ; 

Trooper, I pant for battle ; 
Right eager for the fight, 
I clang with wild delight. 
Hurrah !" 

Why thus, my love, forth creeping ? 
Stay in thy chamber, sleeping ; 

Wait still, in the narrow room ; 

Soon for my bride I come. 
Hurrah ! 



SCHOOLING A HUSBAND. 



313 



" Keep me not longer pining ! 
for love's garden shining 


God plights your bride in the light ! 
Hurrah ! 


With roses bleeding red, 
And blooming with the dead ! 
Hurrah !" 


Then press with warm caresses, 
Close lips and bridal kisses, 

Your steel ; — cursed be his head 


Come from thy sheath, then, treasure ! 


Who fails the bride he wed ! 


Thou trooper's true eye-pleasure ! 

Come forth, my good sword, come 


Hurrah ! 


Enter thy father-home ! 


j$0k ^^^ 


Hurrah ! 


jA pK -Ik 


" Ha ! in the free air glancing, 


M gggdfejg^^^ 


How brave this bridal dancing ! 


JlipjBH H|P(| 


How. in the sun's glad beams ! 


^^te^^^E^Q^^^^^i 


Bride -like, thy bright steel gleams ! 


ISHkM ^ lU ^i 


Hurrah !" 


H ^^^^^^y 


Come on, ye German horsemen ! 


iB Ei|ii|s w 


Come on, ye valiant Norsemen ! 


^^HoiBIi ^r 


Swells not your hearts' warm tide ? 


^S^lOJ ^^^ 


Clasp each in hand his bride ! 
Hurrah ! 

Once at your left side sleeping, 
Scarce her veiled glance forth peeping, 


Now till your swords flash, flinging 
Clear sparks forth, wave them singing. 

Day dawns for bridal pride ; 

Hurrah, thou iron bride ! 


Now wedded with your right, 


Hurrah ! 



SCHOOLING A HUSBAND. 




fRS. CENTRE was jealous. She was one of those discontented 
women who are never satisfied unless something goes wrong. 
When the sky is bright and pleasant they are annoyed because 
there is nothing to grumble at. The trouble is not with the out- 
ward world, but with the heart, the mind : and every one who 
wishes to grumble will find a subject. 
Mrs. Centre was jealous. Her husband was a very good sort of 
person, though he probably had his peculiarities. At any rate, he had a 
cousin, whose name was Sophia Smithers, and who was very pretty, very 
intelligent, and very amiable and kind-hearted. I dare say he occasionally 
made her a social call, to which his wife solemnly and seriously objected, 
for the reason that Sophia was pretty, intelligent, amiable, and kind- 
hearted. These were the sum total of her sins. 

Centre and his wife borrded at a private establishment at the South 



314 SCHOOLING A HUSBAND. 



end of Boston. At the same house also boarded Centre's particular, inti- 
mate, and confidential friend, Wallis, with his wife. Their rooms might 
almost be said to be common ground, for the two men and the two women 
were constantly together. 

Wallis could not help observing that Mrs. Centre watched her husband 
very closely, and Centre at last confessed that there had been some 
difficulty. So they talked the matter over together, and came to the con- 
clusion that it was very stupid for any one to be jealous, most of all for 
Mrs. Centre to be jealous. What they did I don't know, but one evening 
Centre entered the room, and found Mrs. Wallis there. 

"My dear, I am obliged to go out a few moments to call upon a 
friend," said Centre. 

" To call upon a friend !" sneered Mrs. Centre. 

" Yes, my dear, I shall be back presently;" and Mr. Centre left the room. 

" The old story," said she, when he had gone. 

" If it was my husband I would follow him," said Mrs. Wallis. 

" I will I" and she immediately put on her bonnet and shawl. " So- 
phia Smithers lives very near, and I am sure he is going there." 

Centre had gone up stairs to put on his hat and overcoat, and in a 
moment she saw him on the stairs. She could not mistake him, for there 
was no other gentleman in the house who wore such a peculiarly shaped 
Kossuth as he wore. 

He passed out, and Mrs. Centre passed out after him. She followed 

the queer shaped Kossuth of her husband, and it led her to C Street, 

where she had suspected it would lead her. And further, it led her to the 
house of Smithers, the father of Sophia, where she suspected also it would 
lead her. 

Mrs. Centre was very unhappy. Her husband had ceased to love her; 
he loved another ; he loved Sophia Smithers. She could have torn the 
pretty, intelligent, amiable, and kind-hearted cousin of her husband in 
pieces at that moment ; but she had the fortitude to curb her belligerent 
tendencies, and ring the door-bell. 

She was shown into the sitting-room, where the beautiful girl of many 
virtues was engaged in sewing. 

" Is my husband here ?" she demanded. 

" Mr. Centre ? Bless you, no ! He hasn't been here for a month." 

Gracious! What a whopper ! Was it true that she whose multitudi- 
nous qualities had been so often rehearsed to her could tell a lie ? Hadn't she 
seen the peculiar Kossuth of her husband enter that door? Hadn't she 
followed that unmistakable hat to the house ? 



SCHOOLING A HUSBAND. 315 



She was amazed at the coolness of her husband's fair cousin. Before, 
she had believed it was only a flirtation. Now, she was sure it was some- 
thing infinitely worse, and she thought about a divorce, or at least a separa- 
tion. 

She was astounded, and asked no more questions. Did the guilty pair 
hope to deceive her — her, the argus-eyed wife ? She had some shrewd- 
ness, and she had the cunning to conceal her purpose by refraining from 
any appearance of distrust. After a few words upon commonplace topics, 
she took her leave. 

When she reached the sidewalk, there she planted herself, determined 
to wait till Centre came out. For more than an hour she stood there, 
nursing the yellow demon of jealousy. He came not. While she, the true, 
faithful, and legal wife of Centre, was waiting on the cold pavement, 
shivering in the cold blast of autumn, he was folded in the arms of the 
black-hearted Sophia, before a comfortable coal-fire. 

She was catching her death a-cold. What did he care — the brute ! 
He was bestowing his affections upon her who had no legal right to them. 

The wind blew, and it began to rain. She could stand it no longer. 
She should die before she got the divorce, and that was just what the 
inhuman Centre would wish her to do. She must preserve her precious 
life for the present, and she reluctantly concluded to go home. Centre had 
not come out, and it required a struggle for her to forego the exposure of 
the nefarious scheme. 

She rushed into the house, — into her room. Mrs. Wallis was there 
stilL Throwing herself upon the sofa, she wept like a great baby. Her 
friend tried to comfort her, but she wa3 firmly resolved not to be comforted.. 
In vain Mrs. Wallis tried to assure her of the fidelity of her husband. She' 
would not listen to the words. But while she was thus weeping, Mr. 
Centre entered the room, looking just as though nothing had happened. 

"You wretch !" sobbed the lady. 

" What is the matter, my dear?" coolly inquired the gentleman, for he 
had not passed through the battle and storm of matrimonial warfare with- 
out being able to " stand fire." 

" You wretch !" repeated the lady, with compound unction. 

" What has happened ?" 

" You insult me, abuse me, and then ask me what the matter is J" 

cried the lady. " Haven't I been waiting in C Street for two hours 

for you to come out of Smithers' house?" 

"Have you?" 

"I have, you wretch !" 



316 THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. 

"And I did not come out ?" 

" No ! You know you didn't !" 

" There was an excellent reason for that, my dear. I wasn't there," 
said Centre, calmly. 

" You weren't there, you wretch ! How dare you tell me such an 
abominable lie ! But I have found you out. You go there every day, yes, 
twice, three times, a day ! I know your amiable cousin, now ! She can lie 
as well as you!" 

" Sophia tell a lie ! Oh, no, my dear !" 

" But she did. She said you were not there." 

" That was very true ; I was not." 

" How dare you tell me such a lie ! You have been with Sophia all 
the evening. She is a nasty baggage !" 

" Nay, Mrs. Centre, you are mistaken," interposed Mrs. Wallis. " Mr. 
Centre has been with me in this room all the evening." 

" What ! didn't I see him go out, and follow him to C Street ?" 

" No, my dear, I haven't been out this evening. I changed my 
mind." 

Just then Wallis entered the room with that peculiar Kossuth on his 
head, and the mystery was explained. Mrs. Centre was not a little con- 
fused, and very much ashamed of herself. 

Wallis had been in Smithers' library smoking a cigar, and had not 
seen Sophia. Her statement that she had not seen Centre for a month was 
strictly true, and Mrs. Centre was obliged to acknowledge that she had 
been jealous without a cause, though she was not "let into" the plot of 
Wallis. 

But Centre should have known better than to tell his wife what a 
pretty, intelligent, amiable, and kind-hearted girl Sophia was. No hus- 
band should speak well of any lady but his wife. 



THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 




ULL knee-deep lies the winter snow, 
And the winter winds are wearily 
sighing : 
Toll ye the church-bell, sad and slow, 
And tread softly and speak low ; 
For the old year lies a-dying. 
Old year, you must not die ; 



You came to us so readily, 
You lived with us so steadily ; 
Old year, you shall not die. 

He lieth still ; he doth not move ; 

He will not see the dawn of day; 
He hath no other life above : 



BARBARA FRIETCHIE. 



317 



He gave me a friend, and a true, true love, 
And the New-year will take them away. 

Old year, you must not go ; 
So long as you have been with us, 
Such joy as you have seen with us, — 

Old year, you shall not go. 

He frothed his bumpers to the brim ; 

A jollier year we shall not see. 
But though his eyes are waxing dim, 
And though his foes speak ill of him, 
He was a friend to me. 

Old year, you shall not die ; 
We did so laugh and cry with you, 
I've half a mind to die with you, 
Old year, if you must die. 

He was full of joke and jest ; 

But all his merry quips are o'er. 
To see him die, across the waste 
His son and heir doth ride post haste, 

But he'll be dead before. 
Every one for his own. 

The night is starry and cold, my friend, 



And the New-year blithe and bold, my 
friend, 
Comes up to take his own. 

How hard he breathes ! o'er the snow 
I heard just now the crowing cock. 
The shadows flicker to and fro, 
The cricket chirps, the light burns low, — 
'Tis nearly twelve o'clock. 

Shake hands before you die. 
Old year, we'll dearly rue for you. 
What is it we can do for you ? — 
Speak out before you die. 

His face is growing sharp and thin ; — 

Alack ! our friend is gone. 
Close up his eyes, tie up his chin, 
Step from the corpse, and let him in 
Who standeth there alone, 
And waiteth at the door. 
There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, 
And a new face at the door, my friend, 
A new face at the door. 



BARBARA FRIETCHIE. 



JOHN G. WHITTIEE. 



*P from the meadows rich with corn, 
ills Clear in the cool September morn, 




X " The clustered spires of Frederick 
stand, 
Green-walled by the hills of Mary- 
land. 

Round about them orchards sweep, 
Apple and peach tree fruited deep, 

Fair as a garden of the Lord, 

To the eyes of the famished rebel horde. 

On that pleasant morn of the early Fall, 
When Lee marched over the mountain wall, 

Over the mountains winding down, 
Horse and foot, into Frederick town. 



Forty flags with their silver stars, 
Forty flags with their crimson bars, 

Flapped in the morning wind : the sun 
Of noon looked down, and saw not one. 

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, 
Bowed with her four-score years and ten ; 

Bravest of all in Frederick town, 

She took up the flag the men hauled down. 

In her attic-window the staff she set. 
To show that one heart was loyal yet. 

Up the street came the rebel tread, 
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead ; 

Under his slouched hat left and right 
He glanced : the old flag met his sight. 



318 



CIVIL WAR. 



" Halt ! " — the dust-brown ranks stood fs 
" Fire ! " — out blazed the rifle-blast. 

It shivered the window, pane and sash, 
It rent the banner with seam and gash. 

Quick, as it fell from the broken staff, 
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf ; 

She leaned far out on the window-sill, 
And shook it forth with a royal will. 

" Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, 
But spare your country's flag," she said. 

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, 
Over the face of the leader came ; 

The nobler nature within him stirred 
To life at that woman's deed and word. 

" Who touches a hair of yon gray head 
Dies like a dog ! March on ! " he said. 

All day long through Frederick street 
Sounded the tread of marching feet ; 



All day long that free flag tossed 
Over the heads of the rebel host. 

Ever its torn folds rose and fell 

On the loyal winds that loved it well ; 

And through the hill-gaps sunset-light 
Shone over it with a warm good-night. 

Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, 

And the rebel rides on his raids no more. 

Honor to her ! and let a tear 

Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. 

Over Barbara Frietchie's grave 
Flag of Freedem and Union, wave ! 

Peace and order and beauty draw 
Round thy symbol of light and law ; 

And ever the stars above look down 
On thy stars below in Frederick town. 



CIVIL WAR. 




IFLEMAN, shoot me a fancy shot 
H| Straight at the heart of yon 
prowling vedette ; 
Ring me a ball in the glittering spot 
That shines on his breast like an 
amulet ! " 

"Ah, captain ! here goes for a fine-drawn bead, 
There's music around when my . barrel's in 

tune ! " 
Crack !' went the rifle, the messenger sped, 
And dead from his horse fell the ringing 

dragoon. 

" Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes 

and snatch 
From your victim some trinket to hansel 

first blood ; 
A button, a loop, or that luminous patch 
That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud !" 

" Oh captain ! I staggered, and sunk on my 

track, 
When I gazed on the face of that fallen 

vedette, 



For he looked so like you, as he lay on his 

back, 
That my heart rose upon me, and masters me 

yet. 
" But I snatched off the trinket, — this locket 

of gold ; 
An inch from the centre my lead broke its 

way, 
Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold, 
Of a beautiful lady in bridal array." 
" Ha ! rifleman, fling me the locket ! — 'tis sho, 
My brother's young bride, — and the fallen 

dragoon 
Was her husband — Hush ! soldier, 'twas 

Heaven's decree, 
We must bury him there, by the light of the 

moon ! 
" But hark ! the far bugles their warnings 

unite ; 
War is a virtue, — weakness a sin ; 
There's a lurking and loping around us 

to-night ; — 
Load again, rifleman, keep your hand in ! " 



GO, FEEL WHAT I HAVE FELT. 



c/j-«7 




HARK, HARK! THE LARK 




SHAKESPEARE. 



ARK, hark ! the lark at heaven's gate 
sings, 
And Phoebus 'gins arise, 
His steeds to water at those springs 
On chaliced flowers that lies ; 



And winking Mary-buds begin 
To ope their golden eyes ; 

With everything that pretty bin, 
My lady sweet, arise ; 
Arise, arise ! 



GO, FEEL WHAT L HA VE FELT. 



^jf^^O, feel what I have felt, 
<*|jK Go, bear what I have born ; 
c^«— °>Sink 'neath a blow a father dealt, 
j^ And the cold, proud world's scorn. 

k Thus struggle on from year to year, 

| Thy sole relief the scalding tear. 

Go, weep as I have wept 

O'er a loved father's fall ; 
See every cherished promise swept, 
Youth's sweetness turned to gall ; 
Hope's faded flowers strewed all the way, 
That led me up to woman's day. 



Go, kneel as I have knelt: 

Implore, beseech and pray, 
Strive the besotted heart to melt, 
The downward course to stay ; 
Be cast with bitter curse aside, — 
Thy prayers burlesqued, thy tears defied. 

Go, stand where I have stood, 

And see the strong man bow ; 
With gnashing teeth, lips bathed in bloo<3, 
And cold and livid brow ; 
Go catch his wandering glance, and see 
There mirrored his soul's misery. 



320 



Tritt DJUAUUJN'b' r&AY&K. 



Go, hear what I have heard, — 

The sobs of sad despair, 
As memory's feeling fount hath stirred, 
And its revealings there jt 

Have told him what he might have been, 
Had he the drunkard's fate foreseen. 

Go to my mother's side, 
. And her crushed spirit cheer ; 

Thine own deep anguish hide, 
Wipe from her cheek the tear; 
Mark her dimmed eye, her furrowed brow, 
The gray that streaks her dark hair now, 
The toil-worn frame, the trembling limb, 
And trace the ruin back to him 
Whose plighted faith in early youth, 
Promised eternal love and truth, 
But who, forsworn, hath yielded up 
This promise to the deadly cup, 



And led her down from love and light, 
From all that made her pathway bright. 
And chained her there mid want and strife, 
That lowly thing, — a drunkard's wife ! 
And stamped on childhood's brow, so mild, 
That withering blight, — a drunkard's child ! 

Go, hear, and see, and feel, and know 

All that my soul hath felt and known, 
Then look within the wine-cup's glow ; 
See if its brightness can atone ; 
Think of its flavor would you try, 
If all proclaimed, — ' Tis drink and die. 

Tell me I hate the bowl, — 

If ate is a feeble word ; 
I loathe, abhor, my very soul 

By strong disgust is stirred 
Whene'er I see, or hear, or tell 

Of the DARK BEVEBAGE OF HELL ! 



THE DEACON'S PRAYER. 



WILLIAM 0. STODDART. 



§ji|N the regular evening meeting 
Mp That the church-holds every week, 
J%p? One night a listening angel sat 
i To hear them pray and speak. 

It puzzled the soul of the angel 
Why some to that gathering came, 
But sick and sinful hearts he saw, 
With grief and guilt aflame. 

They were silent, but said to the angel, 
" Our lives have need of Him !" 

While doubt, with dull, vague, throbbing 
pain, 
Stirred through their spirits dim. 

You could see 'twas the regular meeting, 
And the regular seats were filled, 

And all knew who would pray and talk, 
Though any one might that willed. 

From, his place in front, near the pulpit, 
In his long-accustomed way, 



When the Book was read, and the hymn was 
sung, 
The Deacon arose to pray. 

First came the long preamble — 

If Peter had opened so, 
He had been, ere the Lord his prayer had 
heard, 

Full fifty fathom below. 

Then a volume of information 

Poured forth, as if to the Lord, 
Concerning His ways and attributes, 

And the things by Him abhorred. 

But not in the list of the latter 

Was mentioned the mocking breath 

Of the hypocrite prayer that is not a prayer, 
And the make-believe life in death. 

Then he prayed for the church; and the 
pastor ; 
And that "souls might be his hire'" — 



MEDITATION AT AN INFANT'S TOMB. 



321 



Whatever his stipend otherwise — 

And the Sunday-school ; and the choir ; 

And the swarming hordes of India ; 

And the perishing, vile Chinese ; 
And the millions who bow to the Pope of 
Rome ; 

And the pagan churches of Greece ; 

And the outcast remnants of Judah, 
Of whose guilt he had much to tell — 

He prayed, or he told the Lord he prayed, 
For everything out of Hell. 



Now, if all of that burden had really 

Been weighing upon his soul, 
'T would have sunk him through to the China 
side, 

And raised a hill over the hole. 



'Twas the regular evening meeting, • 
And the regular prayers were made, 

But the listening angel told the Lord 
That only the silent prayed. 



MEDITATION AT AN INFANT'S TOMB. 



JAMES HERVEY. 




>ONDER white stone, emblem of the innocence it covers, informs the 
beholder of one who breathed out its tender soul almost in the 
instant of receiving it. There, the peaceful infant, without so 
much as knowing what labor and vexation mean, " lies still and is 
quiet; it sleeps and is at rest." What did the little sojourner find 
so forbidding and disgustful in our upper world, to occasion its 
precipitate exit ? 'Tis written, indeed, of its suffering Saviour, that when 
he had tasted the vinegar mingled with gall, he would not drink. And did 
•our new-come stranger begin to sip the cup of life ; but, perceiving the 
bitterness, turn away its head, and refuse the draught ? 

Happy voyager ! no sooner launched, than arrived at the haven ! But 
more eminently happy they, who have passed the waves, and weathered all 
the storms of a troublesome and dangerous world ! who, " through many 
tribulations, have entered into the kingdom of heaven ; r and thereby 
brought honor to their divine Convoy, administered comfort to the com- 
panions of their toil, and left an instructive example. 

Highly favored probationer ! accepted, without being exercised ! It 
was thy peculiar privilege, not to feel the slightest of those evils which 
oppress thy surviving kindred ; which frequently fetch groans from the 
most manly fortitude or most elevated faith. The arrows of calamity, 
barbed with anguish, are often fixed deep in our choicest comforts. The 
fiery darts of temptation, shot from the hand of hell, are always flying in 
showers around our integrity. To thee, sweet babe, both these distresses 
and dangers were alike unknown. 
21 



322 



EXCELSIOR. 



Consider this, ye mourning parents, and dry up your tears. Why 
should you lament that your little ones are crowned with victory, before 
the sword is drawn or the conflict begun ? Perhaps, the Supreme Disposer 
of events foresaw some inevitable snare of temptation forming, or some 
dreadful storm of adversity impending. And why should you be so 
dissatisfied with that kind precaution, which housed your pleasant plant, 
and removed into shelter a tender flower, before the thunders roared ; before 
the lightnings flew ; before the tempest poured its rage ? 

At the same time, let survivors, doomed to bear the heat and burden of 
the day, for their encouragement reflect, that it is more honorable to have 
entered the lists, and to have fought the good fight ; before they come off 
conquerors. They who have borne the cross, and submitted to afflictive 
providences, with a cheerful resignation ; have girded up the loins of their 
mind, and performed their Master's will, with an honest and persevering 
fidelity ; these, having glorified their Redeemer on earth, will, probably, 
be as stars of the first magnitude in heaven. 



EXCELSIOR. 



. cfoo. 



HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 




HE shades of night were falling fast, 
As through an Alpine village passed 
A youth, who bore, mid snow and 
ice, 
A banner with a strange device, 
Excelsior ! 



His brow was sad ; his eye beneath, 
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath ; 
And like a silver clarion rung 
The accents of that unknown tongue, 
Excelsior ! 

In happy homes he saw the light 
Of household fires gleam warm and bright 
Above, the spectral glaciers shone ; 
And from his lips escaped a groan, 
Excelsior ! 

" Try not the pass !" the old man said ; 
" Dark lowers the tempest overhead, 
The roaring torrent is deep and wide !" — 
And loud that clarion voice replied, 
Excelsior ! 




" Oh ! stay," the maiden said, " and rest 
Thy weary head upon this breast !" 
A tear stood in his bright blue eye ; 



PADDY'S EXCELSIOR. 



323 



But still he answered, with a sigh, 
Excelsior ! 

" Beware the pine-tree's withered branch ! 
Beware the awful avalanche !" 
This was the peasant's last good-night ; — 
A voice replied far up the height. 
Excelsior ! 

At break of day, as heavenward 
The pious monks of St. Bernard 
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 
A voice cried through the startled air, 
Excelsior $ 



A traveler, — by the faithful hound, 
Half buried in the snow was found, 
Still grasping in his hand of ice, 
That banner with the strange device, 
Excelsior ! 



There, in the twilight cold and gray, 
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay ; 
And from the sky, serene and far, 
A voice fell, like a falling star, — 
Excelsior I 



PADDY'S EXCELSIOR. 



o£po . 




$WAS growin dark so terrible fasht, 
Whin through a town up the moun- 
tain there pashed 
A broth of a boy, to his neck in 

the shnow ; 
As he walked, his shillalah he 
swung to and fro, 
Saying: "It's up to the top I am 
bound for to go, 
Be jabbers!" 



He looked mortal sad, and his eye was as 

bright 
As a fire of turf on a cowld winther night ; 
And niver a word that he said could ye tell 
As he opened his mouth and let out a yell, 
" It's up till the top of the mountain I'll go, 
Onless covered up wid this bodthersome 

shnow, 

Be jabbers!" 

Through the windows he saw, as he thra- 

veled along, 
The light of the candles and fires so warm, 
But a big chunk of ice hung over his head ; 
Wid a shnivel and groan, " By St. Patrick !" 

he said, 
" It's up to the very tip-top I will rush, 
And then if it falls, it's not meself it'll crush, 
Be jabbers !" 



" Whisht a bit," said an owld man, whose 
hair was as white 

As the shnow that fell down on that miser- 
able night ; 

" Shure ye'll fall in the wather, me bit of a 
lad, 

Fur the night is so dark and the walkin' is 
bad." 

Bedad! he'd not lisht to a word that was 
said, 

But he'd go to the top, if he went on his 
head, 

Be jabbers! 

A bright, buxom young girl, such as likes to 

be kissed, 
Axed him wouldn't he stop, and how could 

he resist ? 
So shnapping his fingers and winking his 

eye, 
While shmiling upon her, he made this re- 

pb r — 

" Faith, I meant to kape on till I got to the 

top, 
But, as yer shwate self has axed me, I may 

as well shtop 

Be jabbers !" 

He shtopped all night and he shtopped all 
day, — 



324 



FATHER TIME'S CHANGELING. 



And ye musn't be axin whin he did go 

away; 
Fur wouldn't he be a bastely gossoon 
To be lavin his darlint in the swate honey- 
moon ? 



Whin the owld man has peraties enough and 
to spare, 

Shure he moight as well shtay if he's com- 
fortable there, 

Be jabbers! 



THE CHINESE EXCELSIOR. 




FROM "THE BOY TRAVELERS. 



Too 



HAT nightee teem he come chop-chop 
One young man walkee, no can stop ; 
Maskee snow, maskee ice ; 
He cally flag wit'h chop so nice — 

Top-side Galah ! 
'He muchee solly : one piecee eye 
Lookee sharp — so fashion — my ; 
He talkee large, he talkee stlong, 
muchee culio ; allee same gong. — 
Top-side Galah ! 



'Insidee house he can see light, 
And evly loom got fire all light; 
He lookee plenty ice more high, 
Insidee mout'h he plenty cly — 

Top-side Galah ! 

'Ole man talkee, " No can walk, 
Bimeby lain come, velly dark ; 



Have got water, velly wide ! " 
Maskee, my must go top-side, — 

Top-side Galah ! 
" Man-man " one girlee talkee he: 
" What for you go top-side look — see ? " 
And one teem more he plenty cly, 
But allee teem walk plenty high — 

Top -side Gaiah ! 
" Take care t'hat spilum tlee, young man, 
Take care t'hat ice, must go man-man." 
One coolie chin-chin he good-night ; 
He talkee, " My can go all light " — 

Top-side Galah ! 
T'hat young man die : one large dog see 
Too muchee bobbly findee he, 
He hand b'long coldee, all same like ice, 
He holdee flag, wit'h chop so nice — 

Top-side Galah ! 



FATHER TIME'S CHANGELING. 



A STORY TOLD TO GRACIE. 




NE day in summer's glow, 
Not many years ago, 
A little babe lay on my knee, 
With rings of silken hair, 
And fingers waxen fair, 
Tiny and soft, and pink as pink 
could be. 



We watched it thrive and grow — 

Ah me ! We loved it so — 
And marked its daily gain in sweeter charms ; 

It learned to laugh and crow, 

And play and kiss us — so — 
Until one day we missed it from our arms. 



In sudden, strange surprise 

We met each other's eyes, 
Asking, " Who stole our pretty babe away ?" 

We questioned earth and air, 

But, seeking everywhere, 
We never found it from that summer day. 

But in its wonted place 

There was another face — 
A little girl's, with yellow curly hair 

About her shoulders tossed ; 

And the sweet babe we lost 
Seemed sometimes looking from her eyes eo 
fair. 



AIRY NOTHINGS. 



325 



She dances, romps, and sings, 


Ah, Blue-eves, do you see 


And does a hundred things 


Who stole my babe from me, 


Which my lost baby never tried to do ; 


And brought the little girl from fairy clime ? 


She longs to read in books, 


A gray old man with wings, 


And with bright eager looks 


Who steals all precious things ; 


Is always asking questions strange and new. 


He lives forever, and his name is Time. 


And I can scarcely tell, 


He rules the world they say ; 


I love the rogue so well, 


He took my babe away — 


Whether I would retrace the four years' 


My precious babe — and left me in its place 


track, 


This little maiden fair, 


And lose the merry sprite 


With yellow curly hair, 


Who makes my home so bright 


Who lives on stories, and whose name is 


To have again my little baby back. 


Grace ! 




AIRY NOTHINGS. 



SHAKESPEARE. 



>UR revels now are ended. These, our 
actors, 
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and 
Are melted into air — into thin air ; 
And, like the baseless fabric of this 
vision, 
The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, 



The solemn temples, the great globe itself, 
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, 
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, 
Leave not a rack behind. We are such 

stuff 
As dreams are made of, and our little life 
Is rounded with sleep. 



326 THE CHARITY DINNER. 



THE CHARITY DINNER. 



Time : half-past six o'clock. Place : The London Tavern. Occasion : Fifteenth Annual Festival of the So- 
ciety for the Distribution of Blankets and Top-Boots among the Natives of the Cannibal Islands. 



LITCHFIELD MOSELY. 




jN entering the room we find more than two hundred noblemen and 
gentlemen already assembled ; and the number is increasing every 
minute. The preparations are now complete, and we are in 
readiness to receive the chairman. After a short pause, a little 
door at the end of the room opens, and the great man appears, attended 
by an admiring circle of stewards and toadies, carrying white wands 
like a parcel of charity-school boys bent on beating the bounds. He 
advances smilingly to his post at the principal table, amid deafening and 
long-continued cheers. 

The dinner now makes its appearance, and we yield up ourselves to the 
enjoyments of eating and drinking. These important duties finished, and 
grace having been beautifully sung by the vocalists, the real business of the 
evening commences. The usual loyal toasts having been given, the noble 
chairman rises, and after passing his fingers through his hair, places his 
thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, gives a short preparatory cough, 
accompanied by a vacant stare round the room, and commences as follows : 
" My Lords and Gentlemen: — It is with feelings of mingled pleasure 
and regret that I appear before you this evening : of pleasure, to find that 
this excellent and world-wide-known society is in so promising a condition ; 
and of regret, that you have not chosen a worthier chairman ; in fact, one 
who is more capable than myself of dealing with a subject of such vital im- 
portance as this. (Loud cheers.) But, although I may be unworthy of the 
honor, I am proud to state that I have been a subscriber to this society 
from its commencement ; feeling sure that nothing can tend more to the 
advancement of civilization, social reform, fireside comfort, and domestic 
economy among the Cannibals, than the diffusion of blankets and top-boots. 
(Tremendous cheering, which lasts for several minutes.) Here in this 
England of ours, which is an island surrounded by water, as I suppose you 
all know — or, as our great poet so truthfully and beautifully expresses the 
same fact, ' England bound in by the triumphant sea ' — what, down the 
long vista of years, have conduced more to our successes in arms, and arts, 
and song, than blankets ? Indeed I never gaze upon a blanket without my 
thoughts reverting fondly to the days of my early childhood. Where 
should we all have been now but for those warm and fleecy coverings ? 



THE CHARITY DINNER. 327 



My Lords and Gentlemen ! Our first and tender memories are all 
associated with blankets : blankets when in our nurses' arms, blankets 
in our cradles, blankets in our cribs, blankets to our French bedsteads in 
our school-days, and blankets to our marital four-posters now. Therefore, I 
say, it becomes our bounden duty as men — and, with feelings of pride, I add, 
as Englishmen — to initiate the untutored savage, the wild and somewhat un- 
cultivated denizen of the prairie, into the comfort and warmth of blankets ; 
and to supply him, as far as practicable, with those reasonable, seasonable, 
luxurious and useful appendages. At such a moment as this, the lines of 
another poet strike familiarly upon the ear. Let me see, they are some- 
thing like this — ah — ah — 

" Blankets have charms to soothe the savage breast, 
And to — to do — a — v 

I forget the rest. (Loud cheers.) 

" My Lord's and Gentlemen ! I will not trespass on your patience by 
making any further remarks ; knowing how incompetent I am — no, no ! 
I don't mean that — knowing how incompetent you all are — no ! I don't 
mean that either — but you all know what I mean. Like the ancient 
Eoman lawgiver, I am in a peculiar position ; for the fact is I cannot 
sit down — I mean to say, that I cannot sit down without saying that, if 
there ever was an institution, it is this institution ; and therefore, I beg to 
propose, ' Prosperity to the Society for the Distribution of Blankets and 
Top-Boots among the Natives of the Cannibal Islands.' " 

The toast having been cordially responded to, his lordship calls upon 
Mr. Duffer, the secretary, to read the report. Whereupon that gentle- 
man, who is of a bland and oily temperament, and whose eyes are con- 
cealed by a pair of green spectacles, produces the necessary document, and 
reads in the orthodox manner — 

" Thirtieth Half-yearly Report of the Society for the Distribution of 
Blankets and Top-Boots to the Natives of the Cannibal Islands." 

The reading concluded, the secretary resumes his seat amid hearty ap- 
plause which continues until Mr. Alderman Gobbleton rises, and, in a 
somewhat lengthy and discursive speech — in which the phrases, ' the Cor- 
poration of the City of London,' 'suit and service,' 'ancient guild,' 'liber- 
ties and privileges,' and 'Court of Common Council,' figure frequently — 
states that he agrees with everything the noble chairman has said ; and 
has, moreover, never listened to a more comprehensive and exhaustive 
document than the one just read ; which is calculated to satisfy even the 
most obtuse and hard-headed of individuals. 



328 THE CHARITY DINNER. 



Gobbleton is a great man in the city. He has either been lord mayor, 
or sheriff, or something of the sort; and, as a few words of his go a long 
way with his friends and admirers, his remarks are very favorably received. 

" Clever man, Gobbleton ! " says a common councilman, sitting near us, 
to his neighbor, a languid swell of the period. 

" Ya-as, vewy ! Wemarkable style of owatowy — gweat fluency," replies 
the other. 

But attention, if you please ! — for M. Hector de Longuebeau, the great 
French writer, is on his legs. He is staying in England for a short time, 
to become acquainted with our manners and customs. 

" Milors and Gentlemans ! " commences the Frenchman, elevating his 
eyebrows and shrugging his shoulders. " Milors and Gentlemans — You 
excellent chairman, M. le Baron de Mount-Stuart, he have to say to me, 
' Make de toast.' Den I say to him I have no toast to make ; but he nudge 
my elbow very soft, and say dat dere is one toast dat nobody but von 
Frenchman can make proper ; and, darefore, wid your kind permission, I 
vill make de toast. ' De brevete is de sole of de feet," as your great philo- 
sophere, Dr. Johnson, do say, in dat amusing little vork of his, de Pro- 
nouncing Dictionnaire; and, darefore, I vill not say ver moch to de point. 
Ven I was a boy, about so moch tall, and used for to promenade the streets 
of Marseilles et of Kouen, vid no feet to put onto my shoe, I nevare to 
have expose dat dis day vould to have arrive. I was to begin de vorld as 
von garcon — or what you call in dis countrie von vaitaire in a cafe — 
vere I vork ver hard, vid no habillements at all to put onto myself, 
and ver little food to eat, excep' von old bleu blouse vat vas give 
to me by de proprietaire, just for to keep myself fit to be showed at; but, 
tank goodness, tings dey have change ver moch for me since dat time and 
I have rose myself, seulement par mon industrie et perseverance. (Loud 
cheers.) Ah ! mes amis ! ven I hear to myself de flowing speech, de oration 
magnifique of you Lor' Maire, Monsieur Gobbledown, I feel dat it is von 
great privilege for von stranger to sit at de same table, and to eat de same 
foo'd, as dat grand, dat majestique man, who are de terreur of de voleurs 
and de brigands of de metropolis ; and who is also, I for to suppose, a halter- 
man and de chief of you common scoundrel. Milors and gentlemans, I 
feel dat I can perspire to no greatare honneur dan to be von common 
scoundrelman myself ; but helas ! dat plassir are not for me, as I are not 
freeman of your great city, not von liveryman servant of von of you com- 
pagnies joint-stock. But I must not forget de toast. Milors and Gentle- 
mans ! De immortal Shakispeare he have write, ' De ding of beauty are 
de joy for nevermore.' It is de ladies who are de toast. Vat is more en- 



PRAYERS OF CHILDREN. 



329 



trancing dan de charmante smile, de soft voice, de vinking eye of de beau- 
tiful lady ! It is de ladies who do sweeten the cares of life. It is de ladies 
who are de guiding stars of our existence. It is de ladies who do cheer 
but not inebriate, and, darefore, vid all homage to dere sex, de toast dat I 
have to propose is, ' De Ladies ! God bless dem all ! ' " 

And the little Frenchman sits down amid a perfect tempest of cheers. 

A few more toasts are given, the list of subscriptions is read, a vote of 
thanks is passed to the noble chairman ; and the Fifteenth Annual Festival 
of the Society for the Distribution of Blankets and Top-Boots among the 
Natives of the Cannibal Islands is at an end. 




PR A YERS OF CHILDREN. 



the quiet nursery chambers, — 

Snowy pillows yet unpressed ,— 
See the forms of little children 
Kneeling, white-robed, for 
rest. 

T All in quiet nursery chambers, 
J While the dusky shadows creep, 
Hear the voices of the children ; 
" Now I lay me down to sleep." 

In the meadow and the mountain 
Calmly shine the Winter stars, 

But across the glistening lowlands 
Stand the moonlight's silver bars. 

In the silence and the darkness, 
Darkness growing still more deep, 



their 



Listen to the little children, 

Praying God their souls to keep. 

" If we die " — so pray the children, 

And the mother's head droops low, 
One from out her fold is sleeping 

Deep beneath the winter's snow — 
" Take our souls ;" — and past the casement 

Flits a gleam of crystal light, 
Like the trailing of his garments, 

Walking evermore in white. 

Little souls that stand expectant, 

Listening at the gates of life, 
Hearing, far away the murmur 

Of the tumult and the strife, 



330 



LITTLE MARGERY. 



We who fight beneath those banners, 


In the warring of temptation, 


Meeting ranks of foemen there, 


Firm and true your souls to keep. 


Find a deeper, broader meaning 
In your simple vesper prayer. 


When the combat ends, and slowly 
Clears the smoke from out the skies ; 


When your hand shall grasp this standard 


When, far down the purple distance, 


Which to-day you watch from far, 


All the noise of battle dies ; 


When your deeds shall shape the conflict 


When the last night's solemn shadow 


In this universal war : 


Settles down on you and me, 


Pray to Him, the God of battles, 


May the love that never faileth 


Whose strong eyes can never sleep, 


Take our souls eternally ! 




i*6**v 



LITTLE MARGERY. 



MRS. SALLIE J. WHITE. 




EELING, white-robed, sleepy eyes. 
Peeping through the tangled hair, 

" Now I lay me — I'm so tired — 
Aunty, God knows all my prayer 
He'll keep little Margery." 



Watching by the little bed, 
Dreaming of the coming years, 

Much I wonder what they'll bring, 
Most of smiles or most of tears, 
To my little Margery. 



LEARNING TO PRAY. 



331 



Will the simple, trusting faith 


Will the woman, folding down 


Shining in the childish breast 


Peaceful hands across her breast, 


Always be so clear and bright? 


Whisper, with her old belief, 


Will God always know the rest, 


" God, my Father, knows the rest, 


Loving little Margery ? 


He'll take tired Margery ?" 


As the weary years go on, 


True, my darling, life is long, 


And you are a child no more, 


And its ways are dark and dim ; 


But a woman, trouble-worn, 


But God knows the path you tread ; 


Will it come — this faith of yours — 


I can leave you safe with Him, 


Blessing you, dear Margery ? 


Always, little Margery. 


If your sweetest love shall fail, 


He will keep your childish faith, 


And your idol turn to dust, 


Through your weary woman years, 


Will you bow to meet the blow, 


Shining ever strong and bright, 


Owning all God's ways are just? 


Never dimmed by saddest tears, 


Can you, sorrowing Margery ? 


Trusting little Margery. 


Should your life-path grow so dark 


You have taught a lesson sweet 


You can see no steps ahead, 


To a yearning, restless soul ; 


Will you lay your hand in His, 


We pray in snatches, ask a part, 


Trusting by him to be led 


But God above us knows the whole, 


To the light, my Margery ? 


And answers, baby Margery. 



LEARNING TO PRAY. 



MARY M. DODGE. 



|^pNEELING fair in the twilight gray, 
pH A beautiful child was trying to 
pray ; 
His cheek on his mother's knee, 
4 His bare little feet half hidden, 

¥ His smile still coming unbidden. 
And his heart brimful of glee. 

" I want to laugh. Is it naughty ? Say, 

mamma ! I've had such fun to-day 

1 hardly can say my prayers. 

I don't feel just like praying ; 

I want to be out-doors playing, 

And run, all undressed, down stairs. 

" I can see the flowers in the garden -bed, 

Shining so pretty, and sweet, and red ; 

And Sammy is swinging, I guess. 
Oh ! everything is so fine out there, 
I want to put it all in the prayer, — 

Do you mean I can do it by ' Yes ?' 



" When I say, ' Now I lay me,'-word for word, 
It seems to me as if nobody heard. 
Would ' Thank you dear God,' be right? 




He gave me my mammy, 
And papa, and Sammy, — 
mamma ! you nodded I might. 



332 



A GLASS OF COLD WATER. 



Clasping his hands and hiding his face, 

Unconsciously yearning for help and grace, 

The little one now began ; 

His mother's nod and sanction sweet 
Had led him close to the dear Lord's feet, 

And his words like music ran : 

" Thank you for making this home so nice, 

The flowers, and my two white mice, — 

I wish I could keep right on ; 

I thank you, too, for every day — 
Only I'm most too glad to pray, 

Dear God, I think I'm done. 



" Now, mamma, rock me — just a minute — 
And sing the hymn with ' darling ' in it. 
I wish I could say my prayers ! 

When I get big, I know I can. 

Oh ! won't it be nice to be a man, 
And stay all night down stairs !" 

The mother, singing, clasped him tight, 

Kissing and cooing her fond " Good-night," 

And treasured his every word. 

For well she knew that the artless joy 
And love of her precious, innocent boy, 

Were a prayer that her Lord had heard. 



NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP. 



jfj^OLDEN head so lowly bending, 
'"Sj- Little feet so white and bare, 

Dewy eyes, half shut, half opened, 
Lisping out her evening prayer. 

" Now I lay," — repeat it, darling — 
" Lay me," lisped the tiny lips 

Of my daughter, kneeling, bending 
O'er the folded finger tips. 



" Down to sleep,"-" To sleep," she murmured, 

And the curly head bent low ; 
" I pray the Lord," I gently added, 
" You can say it all, I know." 

" Pray the Lord," the sound came faintly, 
Fainter still — " My soul to keep ;" 

Then the tired heart fairly nodded, 
And the child was fast asleep, 



But the dewy eyes half opened 

When I clasped her to my breast, 
And the dear voice softly whispered, 
" Mamma, God knows all the rest." 

Oh, the trusting, sweet confiding 
Of the child-heart ! would that I 

Thus might trust my Heavenly Father, 
He who hears my feeblest cry. 

0, the rapture, sweet, unbroken, 

Of the soul who wrote that prayer ! 

Children's myriad voices floating 
Up to Heaven, record it there. 

If, of all that has been written, 

I could choose what might be mine, 

It should be that child's petition, 
Rising to the throne divine. 



A GLASS OE COLD WATER. 



ARRINGTON. 




HEKE is the liquor which God the Eternal brews for all his child- 
ren ? Not in the simmering still, over smoky fires choked with 
poisonous gases, surrounded with the stench oi sickening odors, 
and rank corruptions, doth your Father in heaven prepare the 
precious essence of life, the pure cold water. But in the green 



FATHER. TAKE MY HAND.' 



333 



glade and grassy dell, where the red deer wanders, and the child loves to 
play ; there God brews it. And down, low down in the lowest valleys, 
where the fountains murmur and the rills sing ; and high upon the tall 
mountain tops, where the naked granite glitters like gold in the sun ; where 
the storm-cloud broods, and the thunder-storms crash ; and away far out 
on the wide wild sea, where the hurricane howls music, and the big waves 
roar ; the chorus sweeping the march of God : there he brews it — that 
beverage of life and health-giving water. And everywhere it is a thing of 
beauty, gleaming in the dew-drop ; singing in the summer rain ; shining in 
the ice-gems till the leaves all seem to turn to living jewels; spreading a 
golden veil over the setting sun ; or a white gauze around the midnight 
moon. 

Sporting in the cataract; sleeping in the glacier; dancing in the hail 
shower ; folding its bright snow curtains softly about the wintry world ; 
and waving the many-colored iris, that seraph's zone of the sky, whose 
warp is the rain-drop of earth, whose woof is the sunbeam of heaven ; all 
checkered over with celestial flowers, by the mystic hand of refraction. 

Still always it is beautiful, that life-giving water ; no poison bubbles on 
its brink ; its foam brings not madness and murder ; no blood stains its 
liquid glass ; pale widows and starving orphans weep no burning tears in 
its depth ; no drunken, shrieking ghost from the grave curses it in the 
words of eternal despair ; speak on, my friends, would you exchange for it 
demon's drink, alcohol ! 



FATHER, TAKE MY HAND. 



HENEY N. COBB. 




IfflpHE way is dark, my Father! Cloud 
on cloud 
Is gathering thickly o'er my head, 

and loud 
The thunders roar above me. See, 

I stand 
Like one bewildered! Father, take 

my hand, 
And through the gloom 
Lead safely home 
Thy child ! 

The day goes fast, my Father ! and the night 



Is drawing darklydown. My faithless sight 
Sees ghostly visions. Fears, a spectral band, 
Encompass me. Father ! take my hand, 

And from the night 

Lead up to light 
Thy child! 

The way is long, my Father ! and my soul 
Longs for the rest and quiet of the goal ; 
While yet I journey through this weary 

land, 
Keep me from wandering. Father, take my 

hand ; 



334 



THE GRACIOUS ANSWER. 



Quickly and straight 
Lead to heaven's gate 
Thy child ! 

The path is rough, my Father! Many a 

thorn 
Has pierced me ; and my weary feet, all 

torn 
And bleeding, mark the way. Yet thy 

command 
Bids me press forward. Father, take my 
hand ; 

Then safe and blest, 
Lead up to rest 
Thy child ! 



The throng is great, my Father ! Many a 

doubt 
And fear and danger compass me about ; 
And foes oppress me sore. I cannot stand 
Or go alone. Father ! take my hand, 
And through the throng 
Lead safe along 
Thy child ! 

The cross is heavy, Father ! I have borne 
It long, and still do bear it. Let my worn 
And fainting spirit rise to that blest land 
Where crowns are given. Father, take my 
hand ; 

And reaching down 
Lead to the crown 
Thy child! 



THE GRACIOUS ANSWER. 




HENRY N. COBB. 



j|£iPpHE way is dark, my child! but leads 

mm to light. 



I would not always have thee walk 
by sight. 

My dealings now thou canst not un- 
derstand. 

I meant it so ; but I will take thy 
hand, 

And through the gloom 

Lead safely home 
My child ! 



The day goes fast, my child ! But is the 

night 
Darker to me than day ? In me is light ! 
Keep close to me, and every spectral band 
Of fears shall vanish. I will take thy hand, 
And through the night 
Lead up to light 
My child ! 

The way is long, my child ! But it shall be 
Not one step longer than is best for thee ; 
And thou shalt know, at last, when thou 
shalt stand 



Safe at the goal, how I did take thy hand, 

And quick and straight 

Lead to heaven's gate 

My child ! 

The path is rough, my child ! But oja ! how 

sweet 
Will be the rest, for weary pilgrims meet, 
When thou shalt reach the borders of that 

land 
To which I lead thee, as I take thy hand, 
And safe and blest 
With me shall rest 
My child ! 

The throng is great, my child ! But at thy 

side 
Thy Father walks : then be not terrified, 
For I am with thee; will thy foes com- 
mand 
To let thee freely pass ; will take thy hand, 
And through the throng 
Lead safe along 
My child! 



THE FRENCHMAN AND THE RATS. 



335 



The cross is heavy, child ! Yet there was 

One 
Who bore a heavier for thee ; my Son, 
My well-beloved. For him bear thine ; and 

stand 



With him at last; and, from thy Father's 
hand, 

Thy cross laid down, 
Receive a crown, 
My child! 




THE FRENCHMAN AND THE RATS. 




Sill FRENCHMAN once, who was a 
merry wight, 
Passing to town from Dover, in the 

night, 
Near the roadside an alehouse 

chanced to spy, 
And being rather tired as well as 
dry, 
Resolved to enter ; but first he took a peep, 
In hopes a supper he might get, and cheap. 
He enters : " Hallo ! Garcon, if you please, 
Bring me a leetel bit of bread and cheese, 
And hallo ! Garcon, a pot of porter, too !" 

he said, 
" Vich I shall take, and den myself to bed." 
His supper done, some scraps of cheese were 

left, 
Which our poor Frenchman, thinking it no 

theft, 
Into his pocket put ; then slowly crept 



To wished-for bed ; but not a wink he slept— 

For on the floor some sacks of flour were laid, 

To which the rats a nightly visit paid. 

Our hero, now undressed, popped out the 
light, 

Put on his cap and bade the world good- 
night ; 

But first his breeches, which contained the 
fare, 

Under his pillow he had placed with care. 

Sans cereononie, soon the rats all ran, 

And on the flour-sacks greedily began ; 

At which they gorged themselves; then 
smelling round, 

Under the pillow soon the cheese they found ; 

And while at this they all regaling sat, 

Their happy jaws disturbed the Frenchman's 
nap ; 

Who, half-awake, cries out, " Hallo ! hallc ! 

Vat is dat nibble at my pillow so ? 



336 



DUNCAN GRAY CAM' HERE TO WOO. 



Ah ! 'tis one big — one very big, huge rat ! 
Vat is it that he nibble — nibble at ?" 

In vain our little hero sought repose ; 

Sometimes the vermin galloped o'er his 
nose ; 

And such the pranks they kept up all the 
night, 

That he, on end — antipodes upright , 

Brawling-aloud, called stoutly for a light. 

" Hallo ! Maison ! Garcon, I say ! 

Bring me the bill for vat I have to pay !" 

The bill was brought, and to his great sur- 
prise, 

Ten shillings was the charge : he scarce be- 
lieved his eyes. 

With eager haste, he quickly runs it o'er, 

And every time he viewed it thought it 
more. 

" Vy, zounds and zounds !" he cries, " I sail 
no pay ; 

Vat ! charge ten shelangs for what I have 
mange ? 

A leetel sop of portar, dis vile bed, 



Vare all de rats do run about my head ?" 

"Plague on those rats !" the landlord mut- 
tered out ; 

" I wish, upon my word, that I could make 
'em scout: 

I'll pay him well that can." "Vat's dat you 



•I'll pay him well that can." " Attend to 
me, I pray : 

charge forego, vat I am at, 



Vill you 

If from your house I drive away de rat?" 
" With all my heart," the jolly host re- 
plies. 
" Ecoutez, done ami; 1 the Frenchman cries. 
" First den — Regardez, if you please, 
Bring to dis spot a leetel bread and cheese : 
Eh bien ! a pot of portar, too ; 
And den invite de rats to sup vid you : 
And after dat — no matter dey be villing — 
For vat dey eat, you charge dem just ten 

shelang : 
And I am sure, ven dey behold de score, 
Dey'll quit your house, and never come no 
more." 



DUNCAN CRAY CAM' HERE TO WOO. 




ROBERT BURNS. 



iUNCAN Gray cam' here to woo — 
Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! 
On blythe Yule night when we 
were fu' — 
Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! 
Maggie coost her head fu' high, 
Looked asklent and unco sneigh, 
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh — 
Ha, ha! the wooing o't! 

Duncan fleeched and Duncan prayed — 

Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! 
Meg was deaf as Ailsa craig — 

Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! 
Duncan sighed baith oot and in, 
Gart his een baith bleer't and blin' 
Spake o' lowpin o'er a linn — 

Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! 



Time and chance are but a tide — 
Ha, ha! the wooing o't! 

Slighted love is sair to bide — 

Ha, ha ! the wooing o't— 

Shall I, like a fule, quoth he, 

For a haughty hizzie dee ? 

She may gae to — France for me ! 
Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! 

How it comes let doctors tell — 

Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! 
Meg grew sick as he grew well — 
Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! 
Something in her bosom wrings, — 
For relief a sigh she brings, — 
And 0, her een they speak sic things ! 
Ha ha ! the wooing o't ' 



SUNRISE AT SEA. 



337 



Duncan was a lad o' grace — 

Ha, ha! the wooing o't! 

Maggie's was a piteous case — 

Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! 



Duncan could na be her death : 
Swelling pity smoored his wrath, 
Now they're crouse and canty baith, 
Ha, ha! the wooing o't ! 



THE HOME OF PEACE. 



THOMAS MOOEE. 



j&z 



KNEW by the smoke that so gracefully 
curled 
Above the green elms, that a cottage 
was near, 
And I said, " If there's peace to be 
J- found in the world, 

A heart that is humble might hope 
for it here!" 

It was noon, and on flowers that languished 

around 
In silence, reposed the voluptuous bee ; 
Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a 

sound 
But the woodpecker tapping the hollow 

beech-tree. 



And " Here in this lone little wood," I ex- 
claimed, 
" With a maid who was lovely to soul and 
to eye ; 
Who would blush when I praised her, and 
weep if I blamed, 
How blest could I live, and how calm 
could I die ! 

" By the shade of yon sumach, whose red 
berry dips 
In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to 
recline, 
And to know that I sighed upon innocent lips, 
Which had never been sighed on by any 
but mine !" 



SUNRISE AT SEA. 




W, V. KELLY. 



j^gOW slowly the day dawns, yet how suddenly the sun rises ! Did 
you ever witness a sunrise at sea on a calm morning ? You look 
out of your port-hole before dawn and see the faintest possible 
hint of daylight yonder. You go on deck. The east gives a pale 
promise of the morning, just the first soft glimmer from the gates 
ajar of that heavenly chamber whence the sun will, by-and- 
by, come rejoicing. A low, doubtful, slowly-growing light, spreads 
encroaching on the shadows on the east. The sky beds itself on the 
dark gray sea, with a deep foundation of intense dark rich orange, and 
builds upwards with gradations of yellow, and green, and colors no one 
could name. Infinite changes gently succeed. Miracles of transforma- 
tion, glory passing into glory. The stars fade slowly, blinking at the 
22 



SLEIGHING SONG. 



increasing light, like old religions dying before the Gospel. So smooth is 
the water, it is certain that when the sun rises above the horizon he will 
stand with his feet on a sea of burnished glass. The clouds have bent a 
triumphal arch over the place of his coming, and one broad cloud makes 
a crimson canopy to the pavilion which awaits the king. Graceful, airy 
clouds hover like spirits that expect a spectacle; shortly they put on 
glorious robes, and their faces are bright, as if, like Moses, in some lofty 
place, they had seen God face to face : the meanest tattered cloud that lies 
waiting, like a beggar, at the gates of the morning, for the coming of the 
King from his inaccessible chambers of splendor, is dressed, while it waits, 
in glory beside which the apparel of princes is sordid and vile. For more 
than an hour, a long, long hour, you watch the elaborate unfolding pageant 
of preparation go on in the east. "With a trembling hush of culminating 
wonder, you await impatiently the grand uprise of the sun. Will he ever 
come ? You almost doubt. At last, when the ecstacy of expectation has 
grown intense, a thin, narrow flash of brilliant, dazzling fire shoots level 
along the sea, swift as lightning. Swiftly it rises and broadens till, in one 
moment, the dusk immensity above is kindled by it ; another moment, and 
the far-off, gloomy west sees it; in another, the whole heaven feels it ; and 
yet one moment more, and the wide circle of the level sea is molten silver. 
It is done, all done. The thing, so long preparing and approaching, bursts 
into completion. The day is full-blown in a moment. The few heavy 
piles of cloud on the horizon, look like castles in conflagration and consume 
away; the sun's burning gaze scorches from the rafters of the sky the 
light cobwebs of mist and fleece ; and now the sun has the clean temple of 
the heavens all to himself, paved with silver, domed with azure, pillared 
with light. 



SLEIGHING SONG. 

Or. W. PETTEE. 
^INGLE, jingle, clear the way, Roguish archers, I'll be bound, 



'Tis the merry, merry sleigh, 
^^v^. As it swiftly scuds along 

Hear the burst of happy song, 
See the gleam of glances bright, 
Flashing o'er the pathway white. 
Jingle, jingle, past it flies, 



Little heeding who they wound ; 
See them, with capricious pranks, 
Ploughing now the drifted banks ; 
Jingle, jingle, mid the glee 
Who among them cares for me ? 
Jingle, jingle, on they go, 



Sending shafts from hooded eyes, — j Capes and bonnets white with sno^ , 



JIM. 



339 



Not a single robe they fold 
To protect them from the cold ; 
Jingle, jingle, mid the storm, 
Fun and frolic keep them warm 
Jingle, jingle, down the hills, 



O'er the meadows, past the mills, . 
Now 'tis slow, and now 'tis fast; 
Winter will not always last. 
Jingle, jingle, clear the way, 
'Tis the merry, merry sleigh. 




JIM. 



m-s 



F. BRET HARTE. 



>AY there ! PV: 

Some on yon 

Might know Jim Wild? 
Well, — no offence: 
Thar aint no sense 

In gittin' riled ! 

Jim was my chum 
Up on the Bar : 

That's why I come 
Down from up thar, 

Lookin' for Jim. 

Thank ye, sir ! you 

Ain't of that crew, — 
Blest if you are ! 

Money ? — Not much : 
That ain't my kind ; 

I ain't no such. 

Hum ? — I don't mind, 
Seem' it's you. 



Well, this yer Jim, 
Did you know him ? — 
Jess 'bout your size ; 
Same kind of eyes ! — 
Well that is strange : 
Why it's two year 
Since he come here, 
Sick, for a change. 

Well, here's to us ; 

Eh? 
The deuce you say I 

Dead? 
That little cuss ? 

What makes you star — 
You over thar ? 
Can't a man drop 
's glass in yer shop 
But you must rar'? 



340 THE MINUET. 


It wouldn't take 


Well, thar— Good by,— 


Derned much to break 


No more, sir, — I — 


You and your bar. 


Eh? 




What's that you say ? — 


Dead! 


Why, dern it ! — sho ! — 


Poor — little — Jim ! 


No ? Yes ! By Jo ! 


— Why there was me, 


Sold! 


Jones, and Bob Lee, 


Sold ! Why you limb, 


Harry and Ben, — 


You onery, 


No-account men : 


Derned old 


Then to take him! 


Long-legged Jim ! 



THE MINUET, 



MES. MARY M. DODGE. 




told me all about it, 
r Told me so I couldn't doubt it, 

How she danced — my grandma 
danced — 

Long ago. 
How she held her pretty head, 
How her dainty skirt she spread, 
How she turned her little toes — 
Smiling little human rose ! — 
Long ago. 

Grandma's hair was bright and sunny ; 
Dimpled cheeks, too — ah, how funny ! 
Really quite a pretty girl, 
Long ago. 
Bless her ! why she wears a cap, 
Grandma does, aud takes a nap 
Every single day ; and yet 
Grandma danced the minuet 
Long ago. 

Now she sits there, rocking, rocking, 
Always knitting grandpa's stocking — 
(Every girl was taught to knit 

Long ago,) 
Yet her figure is so neat, 
And her way so staid and sweet, 
I can almost see her now 
Bending to her partner's bow, 

Long ago. 



Grandma says our modern jumping, 
Hopping, rushing, whirling, bumping, 
Would have shocked the gentle folk 
Long ago. 
No — they moved with stately grace, 
Everything in proper place, 
Gliding slowly forward, then 
Slowly courtesying back again, 
Long ago. 

Modern ways are quite alarming, 
Grandma says ; but boys were charming- 
Girls and boys, I mean, of course — 
Long ago. 
Bravely modest, grandly shy — 
What if all of us should try 
Just to feel like those who met 
In the graceful minuet 
Long ago ? 



With the minuet in fashion, 
Who could fly into a passion ? 

All would wear the calm they wore 

Long ago. 
In time to come, if I perchance, 
Should tell my grandchild of our dance, 
I should really like to say, 
" We did it, dear, in some such way. 

Long ago." 



EARLY RISING. 



341 



THE LOST DOLL. 



C. KINGSLEY. 



ONCE had a sweet little doll, dears, 
The prettiest doll in the world ; 
Her cheeks were so red and so white, 
dears, 

f And her hair was so charmingly 
¥ curled, 

| But I lost my poor little doll, dears, 
As I played on the heath one day ; 
And I cried for her more than a week, dears, 
But I never could find where she lay. 



I found my poor little doll, dears, 

As I played on the heath one day ; 
Folks say she is terribly changed, dears, 

For her paint is all washed away, 
And her arm's trodden off by the cows, 
dears, 

And her hair's not the least bit curled ; 
Yet for old times' sake, she is still, dears 

The prettiest doll in the world. 



EARLY RISING. 




JOHN G. SAXE. 
bless the man who first invented 



l" 



So Sancho Panza said, and so say 
I; 
And bless him, also, that he didn't 



His great discovery to himself, 
nor try 
To make it — as the lucky fellow might — 
A close monopoly by patent-right ! 

Yes, — bless the man who first invented sleep, 

(I really can't avoid the iteration ;) 
But blast the man with curses loud and 
deep, 
"Whate'er the rascal's name or age or 
station, 
Who first invented, and went round advising, 
That artificial cut-off, — Early Rising ! 

" Rise with the lark, and with the lark to 
bed," 

Observes some solemn, sentimental owl ; 
Maxims like these are very cheaply said ; 

But, ere you make yourself a fool or fowl, 
Pray just inquire about his rise and fall, 
And whether larks have any beds at all! 



" The time for honest folks to be abed 
Is in the morning, if I reason right ; 

And he who cannot keep his precious head 
Upon his pillow till it's fairly light, 

And so enjoy his forty morning winks, 

Is up to knavery, or else — he drinks ! 



Thomson, who sung about the " Seasons," 
said 
It was a glorious thing to rise in season ; 
But then he said it — lying — in his bed, 

At ten o'clock, a. m., — the very reason 
He wrote so charmingly. The simple fact is, 
His preaching wasn't sanctioned by his 
practice. 

'Tis doubtless, well to be sometimes awake, — 

Awake to duty, and awake to truth, — 
But when, alas ! a nice review we take 
Of our best deeds and days, we find, in 
sooth, 
The hours that leave the slightest cause to 

weep 
Are those we passed in childhood, or asleep ! 

'Tis beautiful to leave the world awhile 
For the soft visions of the gentle night ; 



342 



HIAWATHA'S JOURNEY. 



And free, at last, from mortal care or guile, 

To live as only in the angel's sight, 
In sleep's sweet realm so cosily shut in, 
Where, at the worst, we only dream of sin ! 



So let us sleep, and give the Maker praise. 
I like the lad who, when his father thought 



To clip his morning nap by hackneyed 
phrase 
Of vagrant worm by early songster caught, 
Cried, " Served him right ! — it's not at all 
surprising ; 
The worm was punished, sir, for early 
rising!" 



HIAWATHA'S JOURNEY. 



H. W. LONGFELLOW. 



_cfe 



'* SSBSJ^ unto the bow the cord is, 
So unto the man is woman, 
Though she bends him, she obeys 
him, 
Though she draws him, yet she 
' follows, 
Useless one without the other ! " 




Like a fire upon the hearth-stone 
Is a neighbor's homely daughter, 
Like the starlight or the moonlight 
Is the handsomest of strangers !" 

Thus dissuading spake Nokomis, 
And my Hiawatha answered 




Thus the youthful Hiawatha, 
Said within himself and pondered, 
Much perplexed by various feelings, 
Listless, longing, hoping, fearing, 
Dreaming still of Minnehaha, 
Of the lovely Laughing Water, 
In the land of the Dacotahs. 

" Wed a maiden of your people," 
Warning said the old Nokomis ; 
" Go not eastward, go not westward, 
For a stranger, whom we know not ! 



Only this : " Dear old Nokomis, 
Very pleasant is the firelight, 
But I like the starlight better, 
Better do I like the moonlight !' 



Gravely then said old Nokomis : 
" Bring not here an idle maiden, 
Bring not here a useless woman, 
Hands unskillful, feet unwilling ; 
Bring a wife with nimble fingers, 




" Thus departed Hiawatha 
To the land of the Dacotahs. 



HIAWATHA'S JOURNEY. 



343 



Heart and hand that move together, 
Feet that run on willing errands !" 

Smiling answered Hiawatha : 
" In the land of the Dacotahs 
Lives the Arrow-maker's daughter, 
Minnehaha, Laughing Water, 
Handsomest of all the women, 
I will bring her to your wigwam, 
She shall run upon your errands, 
Be your starlight, moonlight, firelight, 
Be the sunlight of my people !" 

Still dissuading said Nokomis : 
" Bring not to my lodge a stranger 
From the land of the Dacotahs ! 
Very fierce are the Dacotahs, 
Often is there war between us, 
There are feuds yet unforgotten, 
Wounds that ache and still may open !" 

Laughing answered Hiawatha : 
" For that reason, if no other, 
Would I wed the fair Dacotah, 
That our tribes might be united, 
That old feuds might be forgotten, 
And old wounds be healed forever !" 

Thus departed Hiawatha 
To the land of the Dacotahs, 
To the land of handsome women ; 
Striding over moor and meadow, 
Through interminable forests, 
Through uninterrupted silence. 

With his moccasins of magic, 
At each stride a mile he measured ; 
Yet the way seemed long before him, 
And his heart outran his footsteps ; 
And he journeyed without resting, 
Till he heard the cataract's laughter, 
Heard the Falls of Minnehaha 
Calling to him through the silence. 
" Pleasant is the sound !" he murmured,- 
" Pleasant is the voice that calls me!" 

On the outskirts of the forest, 
'Twixt the shadow and the sunshine, 
Herds of fallow deer were feeding, 



But they saw not Hiawatha ; 

To his bow he whispered, " Fail not !" 

To his arrow whispered, " Swerve not!" 

Sent it singing on its errand, 

To the red heart of the roebuck ; 

Threw the deer across his shoulder, 

And sped forward without pausing. 

At the doorway of his wigwam 
Sat the ancient Arrow-maker, 
In the land of the Dacotahs, 
Making arrow-heads of jasper, 
Arrow-heads of chalcedony. 
At his side, in all her beauty, 
Sat the lovely Minnehaha, 
Sat his daughter, Laughing Water, 
Plaiting mats of flags and rushes ; 
Of the past the old man's thoughts were, 
And the maiden's of the future. 



He was thinking, as he sat there, 
Of the days when with such arrows 
He had struck the deer and bison, 
On the Muskoday, the meadow ; 
Shot the wild goose, flying southward, 
On the wing, the clamorous Wawa ; 
Thinking of the great war-parties, 
How they came to buy his arrows, 
Could not fight without his arrows. 
Ah, no more such noble warriors 
Could be found on earth as they were ! 
Now the men were all like women, 
Only used their tongues for weapons ! 

She was thinking of a hunter, 
From another tribe and country, 
Young and tall and very handsome, 
Who one morning in the Spring-time, 
Came to buy her father's arrows, 
Sat and rested in the wigwam, 
Lingered long about the doorway, 
Looking back as he departed. 
She had heard her father praise him, 
Praise his courage and his wisdom ; 
Would he come again for arrows 
To the falls of Minnehaha ? 
On the mat her hands lay idle, 
And her eyes were very dreamy. 



344 



HIAWATHA'S WOOING. 



HIAWATHA'S WOOING. 



H. W. LONGFELLOW. 



|SS||T the feet of Laughing Water 
^Mii® Hiawatha laid his burden, 

Threw the red deer from his should- 
ers ; 

And the maiden looked up at him, 

¥ Looked up from her mat of rushes, 
Said with gentle look and accent, 
" You are welcome, Hiawatha !" 
Very spacious was the wigwam, 
Made of deer-skin dressed and whitened, 
With the gods of the Dacotahs 
Drawn and painted on its curtains, 
And so tall the doorway, hardly 
Hiawatha stooped to enter, 
Hardly touched his eagle-feathers 
As he entered at the doorway. 

Then uprose the Laughing Water, 
From the ground fair Minnehaha, 
Laid aside her mat unfinished, 
Brought forth food and set before them, 
Water brought them from the brooklet, 
Gave them food in earthen vessels, 
Gave them drink in bowls of bass-wood, 
Listened while the guest was speaking, 
Listened while her father answered, 
But not once her lips she opened, 
Not a single word she uttered. 

Yes, as in a dream she listened 
To the words of Hiawatha, 
As he talked of old Nokomis, 
Who had nursed him in his childhood, 
As he told of his companions, 
Chibiabos, the musician, 
And the very strong man, Kwasind, 
And of happiness and plenty, 
In the land of the Ojibways, 
In the pleasant land and peaceful. 
" After many years of warfare, 
Many years of strife and bloodshed, 
There is peace between the Ojibways 
And the tribe of the Dacotahs :" 
Thus continued Hiawatha, 
And then added, speaking slowly, 
" That this peace may last forever, 
And our hands be clasped more closely, 
And our hearts be more united, 



Give me as my wife this maiden, 
Minnehaha, Laughing water, 
Loveliest of Dacotah women ?" 

And the ancient Arrow-maker 
Paused a moment ere he answered, 
Smoked a little while in silence, 
Looked at Hiawatha proudly, 
Fondly looked at Laughing Water, 
And made answer very gravely : 
"Yes, if Minnehaha wishes ; 
Let your heart speak, Minnehaha !" 

And the lovely Laughing Water 
Seemed more lovely as she stood there, 
Neither willing nor reluctant, 
As she went to Hiawatha, 
Softly took the seat beside him, 
While she said, and blushed to say it, 
" I will follow you, my husband !" 

This was Hiawatha's wooing ! 
Thus it was he won the daughter 
Of the ancient Arrow-maker, 
In the land of the Dacotahs ! 
From the wigwam he departed, 
Leading with him Laughing Water ; 
Hand in hand they went together, 
Through the woodland and the meadow, 
Left the old man standing lonely 
At the doorway of his wigwam, 
Heard the Falls of Minnehaha 
Calling to them from the distance, 
Crying to them from afar off, 
*' Fare thee well, Minnehaha !" 

And the ancient Arrow-maker 
Turned again unto his labor, 
Sat down by his sunny doorway, 
Murmuring to himself, and saying : 
" Thus it is our daughters leave us, 
Those we love, and those who love us f 
Just when they have learned to help ua, 
When we are old and lean upon them, 
Comes a youth with flaunting feathers, 
With his flute of reeds, a stranger 
Wanders piping through the village, 
Beckons to the fairest maiden, 
And she follows where he leads her, 
Leaving all things for the stranger !" 




"On the outskirts of the forest, 
'Twixt the shadow and the sunshine, 
Herds of fallow deer were feeding. " 



A CHILD'S DREAM OF A STAR. 



345 



HIAWATHA'S RETURN. 



, rs(y/r% t 



H. W. LONGFELLOW. 



the 



home- 



jLEASANT was tne journey 
ward 
Through interminable forests, 
Over meadow, over mountain, 
Over river, hill, and hollow. 
Short it seemed to Hiawatha, 
Though they journeyed very slowly, 
Though his pace he checked and 

slackened 
To the steps of Laughing "Water. 

Over wide and rushing rivers 
In his arms he bore the maiden ; 
Light he thought her as a feather, 
As the plume upon his head-gear ; 
Cleared the tangled pathway for her, 
Bent aside the swaying branches, 
Made at night a lodge of branches, 
And a bed with boughs of hemlock, 
And a fire before the doorway 
With the dry cones of the pine-tree. 

All the traveling winds went with them 
O'er the meadow, through the forest ; 
All the stars of night looked at them, 
Watched with sleepless eyes their slumber ; 
From his ambush in the oak-tree 
Peered the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
Watched with eager eyes the lovers ; 
And the rabbit, the Wabasso, 
Scampered from the path before them, 
Peeping, peeping from his burrow, 
Sat erect upon his haunches, 
Watched with curious eyes the lovers. 



Pleasant was the journey homeward 1 
All the birds sang loud and sweetly 
Songs of happiness and heart's-ease ; 
Sang the blue-bird, the Owaissa, 
" Happy are you, Hiawatha, 
Having such a wife to love you ! " 
Sang the robin, the Opechee, 
" Happy are you, Laughing Water, 
Having such" a noble husband ! " 

From the sky the sun benignant 
Looked upon them through the branches, 
Saying to them, " my children, 
Love is sunshine, hate is shadow, 
Life is checkered shade and sunshine, 
Rule by love, Hiawatha ! " 

From the sky the moon looked at them, 
Filled the lodge with mystic splendors, 
Whispered to them, " my children, 
Day is restless, night is quiet, 
Man imperious, woman feeble ; 
Half is mine, although I follow ; 
Ruled by patience, Laughing Water ! " 

Thus it was they journeyed homeward. 
Thus it was that Hiawatha 
To the lodge of old Nokomis 
Brought the moonlight, starlight, firelight, 
Brought the sunshine of his people, 
Minnehaha, Laughing Water, 
Handsomest of all women 
In the land of the Dacotahs, 
In the land of handsome women. 



A CHILD'S DREAM OF A STAR. 




CEAKLES DICKENS* 



pHEEE was once a child, and lie strolled about a good deal, and thought 
of a number of things. He had a sister who was a child too, and 
his constant companion. They wondered at the beauty of flowers ; 



346 A CHILD'S DREAM OF A STAR. 



they wondered at the height and blueness of the sky ; they wondered at 
the depth of the water ; they wondered at the goodness and power of God ; 
who made them so lovely. 

They used to say to one another sometimes : Supposing all the 
children upon earth were to die, would the flowers, and the water, and the 
sky be sorry ? They believed they would be sorry. For, said they, the 
buds are the children of the flowers, and the little playful streams that 
gambol down the hillsides are the children of the water, and the smallest 
bright specks playing at hide and seek in the sky all night must surely be 
the children of the stars; and they would all be grieved to see their 
play-mates, the children of men, no more. 

There was one clear shining star that used to come out in the sky 
before the rest, near the church spire, above the graves. It was larger 
and more beautiful, they thought, than all the others, and every night they 
watched for it, standing hand-in-hand at a window. Whoever saw it first, 
cried out, " I see the star." And after that, they cried out both together,, 
knowing so well when it would rise, and where. So they grew to be such 
friends with it, that before laying down in their bed, they always looked 
out once again to bid it good night ; and when they were turning around 
to sleep, they used to say, " God bless the star !" 

But while she was still very young, oh, very young, the sister 
drooped, and came to be so weak that she could no longer stand at the- 
window at night, and then the child looked sadly out by himself, and when 
he saw the star, turned round and said to the patient pale face on the bed,. 
" I see the star !" and then a smile would come upon the face, and a little 
weak voice used to say, " God bless my brother and the star !" 

And so the time came, all too soon, when the child looked out all 
alone, and when there was no face on the bed, and when there was a grave 
among the graves, not there before, and when the star made long rays 
down toward him as he saw it through his tears. Now these rays were so 
bright, and they seemed to make such a shining way from earth to heaven, 
that when the child went to his solitary bed, he dreamed about the star ; 
and dreamed that, lying where he was, he saw a train of people taken up 
that sparkling road by angels ; and the star, opening, showing him a great, 
world of light, where many more such angels waited to receive them. 

All these angels, who were waiting, turned their beaming eyes upon 
the people who were carried up into the star ; and some came out from the 
long rows in which they stood, and fell upon the people's necks, and kissed 
them tenderly, and went away with them down avenues of light, and were 
so happy in their company, that lying in his bed he wept for joy. 



A CHILD'S DREAM OF A STAR. 347 

But there were many angels who did not go with them, and among 
them one he knew. The patient face that once had lain upon the bed was 
glorified and radiant, but his heart found out his sister among all the 
host. 

His sister's angel lingered near the entrance of the star, and said to the 
leader among those who had brought the people thither : 

" Is my brother come ?" 

And he said, " No !" 

She was turning hopefully away, when the child stretched out his 
arms, and cried, " Oh, sister, I am here ! Take me!" And then she 
turned her beaming eyes upon him, — and it was night ; and the star was 
shining into the room, making long rays down towards him as he saw it 
through his tears. 

From that hour forth the child looked out upon the star as the home 
he was to go to when his time should come ; and he thought that he did 
not belong to the earth alone, but to the star too, because of his sister's 
angel gone before. 

There was a baby born to be a brother to the child, and, while he was 
so little that he never yet had spoken a word, he stretched out his tiny 
form on his bed, and died. 

Again the child dreamed of the opened star, and of the company of 
angels, and the train of people, and the rows of angels with their beaming 
eyes all turned upon those people's faces. 

Said his sister's angel to the leader : 

" Is my brother come ?" 

And he said, " Not that one, but another !" 

As the child beheld his brother's angel in her arms, he cried, " Oh, 
my sister, I am here ! Take me!" And she turned and smiled upon 
him, — and the star was shining. 

He grew to be a young man, and was busy at his books, when an old 
servant came to him and said : 

" Thy mother is no more. I bring her blessing on her darling son." 

Again at night he saw the star, and all that former company. Said 
his sister's angel to the leader, " Is my brother come ?" 

And he said, " Thy mother !" 

A mighty cry of joy went forth through all the star, because the 
mother was re-united to her two children. And he stretched out his arms 
and cried, " Oh, mother, sister, and brother, I am here ! Take me !" 
And they answered him, " Not yet !" — and the star was shining. 

He grew to be a man, whose hair was turning gray, and he was 



348 



BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. 



sitting in his chair by the fireside, heavy with grief, and with his face 
bedewed with- tears, when the star opened once again. 

Said his sister's angel to the leader, " Is my brother come ?" 

And he said, " Nay, but his maiden daughter !" 

And the man who had been a child, saw his daughter, newly lost to 
him, a celestial creature among those three, and he said : " My daughter's 
head is on my sister's bosom, and her arm is around my mother's neck, 
and at her feet is the baby of old time, and I can bear the parting from 
her, God be praised !" — And the star was shining. 

Thus the child came to be an old man, and his once smooth face was 
wrinkled, and his steps were slow and feeble, and his back was bent. And 
one night as he lay upon his bed, his children standing round, he cried, as 
he cried so long ago : "I see the star !" 

They whispered one another, " He is dying." And he said, " I am. 
My age is falling from me like a garment, and I move towards the star as 
a child. And 0, my Father, now I thank Thee that it has so often opened 
to receive those dear ones who await me!" — 

And the star was shining ; and it shines upon his grave. 




BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 




REAK, break, break, 

On thy cold gray stones, Sea! 
And I would that my tongue could 
utter 
The thoughts that arise in me. 



well for the fisherman's boy, 
That he shouts with his sister at 

play, 

well for the sailor lad, 

That he sings in his boat on the bay. 



THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 



349 



And the stately ships go on 
To their haven under the hill; 

But for the touch of a vanished hand, 
And the sound of a voice that is still ! 



Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, Sea ! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

Will never come back to me. 



THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 



, ^p^\ . 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 



fljfHE melancholy days are come, the 

saddest of the year, 
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, 

and meadows brown and sear. 
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, 

the autumn leaves lie dead ; 
They rustle to the eddying gust, and 

to the rabbit's tread. 




IfSSiMli^ 



'The robin and the wren are flown, and from 

the shrubs the jay, 
-And from the wood-top calls the crow through 

all the gloomy day. 

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, 

that lately sprang and stood 
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous 

sisterhood ? 
.Alas ! they all are in their graves ; the gentle 

race of flowers 
.Are lying in their lowly beds with the fair 

and good of ours. 
The rain is falling where they lie; but the 

cold November rain 
•Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely 

ones again. 



The wind-flower and the violet, they perished 

long ago, 
And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid 

the summer glow ; 
But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster 

in the wood, 
And the yellow sunflower by the brook in 

autumn beauty stood, 
Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, 

as falls the plague on men, 
And the brightness of their smile was gone 

from upland, glade, and glen, 

And now, when comes the calm mild day, as 

still such days will come, 
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their 

winter home ; 
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, 

though all the trees are still, 
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters 

of the rill, 
The south-wind searches for the flowers 

whose fragrance late he bore, 
And sighs to find them in the wood and by 

the stream no more. 

And then I think of one who in her youth- 
ful beauty died, 

The fair meek blossom that grew up and 
faded by my side. 

In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the 
forests cast the leaf, 

And we wept that one so lovely should have 
a life so brief; 

Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that 
young friend of ours, 

So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with 
the flowers. 



350 



ROME AND CARTHAGE. 



BENEDICITE 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 




OD'S love and peace be with thee, where 
Soe'er this soft autumnal air 
Lifts the dark tresses of thy hair ! 

Whether through city casements comes 
Its kiss to thee, in crowded rooms, 
Or, out among the woodland blooms, 



The hills we climbed, the river seen 
By gleams along its deep ravine, — 
All keep thy memory fresh and green. 

Where'er I look, where'er I stray, 
Thy thought goes with me on my way, 
And hence the prayer I breathe to-day ; 

O'er lapse of time and change of scene, 
The weary waste which lies between 
Thyself and me, my heart I lean. 

Thou lack'st not Friendship's spellword, nor 
The half-unconscious power to draw 
All hearts to thine by Love's sweet law. 

It freshens o'er thy thoughtful face, 
Imparting, in its glad embrace, 
Beauty to beauty, grace to grace ! 



Fair Nature's book together read, 

The old wood-paths that knew our tread, 

The maple shadows overhead, — 

With these good gifts of God is cast 
Thy lot, and many a charm thou hast 
To hold the blessed angels fast. 

If, then, a fervent wish for thee 

The gracious heavens will heed from me, 

What should, dear heart, its burden be ? 

The sighing of a shaken reed, — 
What can I more than meekly plead 
The greatness of our common need ? 

God's love, — unchanging, pure, and true, 
The Paraclete white-shining through 
His peace, — the fall of Hermon's dew ! 

With such a prayer, on this sweet day, 
As thou mayst hear and I may say, 
I greet thee, dearest, far away ! 



ROME AND CARTHAGE. 



VICTOR HUGO. 




pyj^OME and Carthage ! — behold them drawing near for the struggle^ 
Wik that is to shake the world ! Carthage, the metropolis of Africa, 
is the mistress of oceans, of kingdoms, and of nations ; a magni- 
ficent city, burthened with opulence, radiant with the strange arts 
t and trophies of the East. She is at the acme of her civilization. She 
^ can mount no higher. Any change now must be a decline. Rome is 
comparatively poor. She has seized all within her grasp, but rather from 
the lust of conquest than to fill her own coffers. She is demi-barbarous^ 



ROME AND CARTHAGE. 



351 



and has her ed- 
ucation and her 
fortune both to 
make. All is be- 
fore her, noth- 
ing behind. For 
a time these two 
nations exist in 
distinct view of 
each other. The 
one reposes in 
the noontide of 
her splendor ; 
the other waxes 
strong in the 
shade. But, lit- 
tle by little, air 
and space are 
wanting to each, 
for the develop- 
ment of each. 
Eome begins to 
systematically 
perplex Carth- 
age, and Carthage is an eyesore to Home. Seated on opposite banks of 
the Mediterranean, the two cities look each other in the face. The sea 
no longer keeps them apart. Europe and Africa weigh upon each other. 
Like two clouds surcharged with electricity, they impend. With their 
contact must come the thunder-shock. 

The catastrophe of this stupendous drama is at hand. What actors 
are met ! Two races, — that of merchants and mariners, that of laborers 
and soldiers ; two Nations, — the one dominant by gold the other by steel ; 
two Eepublics, — the one theocratic, the other aristocratic. Eome and 
Carthage ! Eome with her army, Carthage with her fleet ; Carthage old, 
rich, and crafty, — Eome, young, poor, and robust ; the past and the 
future ; the spirit of discovery, and the spirit of conquest ; the genius of 
commerce, the demon of war ; the East and the South on one side, the 
West and the North on the other ; in short, two worlds, — the civilization 
of Africa, and the civilization of Europe. They measure each other from 
head to foot. They gather all their forces. Gradually the war kindles. 




TRIUMPHAL ARCH AT ROME. 



352 



FARM- YARD SONG. 



The world takes fire. These colossal powers are locked in deadly strife* 
Carthage has crossed the Alps ; Rome the seas. The two Nations, per- 
sonified in two men, Hannibal and Scipio, close with each other, wrestle, 
and grow infuriate. The duel is desperate. It is a struggle for life. 
Eome wavers. — She utters that cry of anguish — Hannibal at the gates ! 
But she rallies, — collects all her strength for one last, appalling effort, — 
throws herself upon Carthage, and sweeps her from the face of the 
earth ! 



FARM-YARD SONG, 



J. T. TROWBRIDGE. 




^VER the hill the farm -boy goes : 
His shadow lengthens along the land, 
A giant staff in his giant hand ; 
In the poplar-tree above the spring 
The katydid begins to sing ; 

The early dews are falling : 
Into the stone-heap darts the mink, 
The swallows skim the river's brink, 




And home to the woodland fly the crows, 
When over the hill the farm-boy goes, 

Cheerily calling — 

"Co', boss ! co', boss ! co' ! co' ! co' !' 
Farther, farther over the hill, 
Faintly calling, calling still — 

" Co', boss ! co', boss ! co* ! co' !" 

Into the yard the farmer goes, 

With grateful heart, at the close of day : 

Harness and chain are hung away ; 



In the wagon-shed stand yoke and plough ; 
The straw's in the stack, the. hay in the mow ; 

The cooling dews are falling : 
The friendly sheep his welcome bleat, 
The pigs come grunting to his feet, 
The whinnying mare her master knows, 
When into the yard the farmer goes, 

His cattle calling — 

"Co', boss! co', boss! co' ! co' ! co' !" 
While still the cow-boy, far away, 
Goes seeking those who have gone astray — 

"Co', boss! co', boss! co' ! co'! 

Now to her task the milkmaid goes ; 

The cattle come crowding through the gate, 

Lowing, pushing, little and great; 

About the trough, by the farm-yard pump, 

The frolicksome yearlings frisk and jump, 

While the pleasant dews are falling : 
The new milch heifer is quick and shy, 
But the old cow waits with tranquil eye ; 
And the white stream into the bright pail 

flows, » 

When to her task the milkmaid goes, 

Soothingly calling — 

" So, boss ! so, boss ! so ! so ! so ! 
The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool, 
And sits and milks in the twilight cool, 

Saying, " So, so, boss ! so, so !" 

To supper at last the farmer goes : 
The apples are pared, the paper is read, 
The stories are told, then all to bed : 
Without, the cricket's ceaseless song 
Makes shrill the silence all night long; 



HOW'S MY BOY? 



353 



The heavy dews are falling : 
The housewife's hand has turned the lock 
Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock ; 
The household sinks to deep repose ; 
But still in sleep the farm-boy goes 



Singing, calling — 

" Co', boss ! co', boss ! co' ! co' ! co' ! 
And oft the milkmaid, in her dreams, 
Drums in the pail with the flashing streams, 

Murmuring, "So, boss! so!" , 



I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY. 



B. MUHLENBEBG. 



would not live alway ; I ask not to stay 
Where storm after storm rises dark o'er 

the way ; 
The few lurid mornings that dawn on 
us here 

js Are enough for life's joys, full enough 
■f. for its cheer. 

I would not live alway ; no, — welcome the 

tomb ! 
Since Jesus hath lain there, I dread not its 

gloom ; 
There sweet be my rest till he bid me arise, 
To hail him in triumph descending the skies. 



Who, who Would live alway, away from his 

God- 
Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode, 
Where rivers of pleasure flow bright o'er the 

plains, 
And the noontide of glory eternally reigns ? 

There saints of all ages in harmony meet, 
Their Saviour and brethren transported to 

greet ; 
While anthems of rapture unceasingly roll, 
And the smile of the Lord is the feast of tha 

soul. 



HOW'S MY BOY? 




SYDNEY DOBELL. 



0, Sailor of the sea ! 

How's my boy — my boy ? 

" What's your boy's name, good wife, 

And in what good ship sailed he ?" 

My boy John — 
" ' He that went to sea — 

What care I for the ship, sailor? 
My boy's my boy to me. 

You come back from sea, 
And not know my John ? 
I might as well have asked some landsman 
Yonder down in the town. 
There's not an ass in all the parish 
But he knows my John. 
23 



How's my boy — my boy ? 

And unless you let me know 

I'll swear you are no sailor, 

Blue jacket or no, 

Brass button or no, sailor, 

Anchor or crown or no ! 

Sure his ship was the Jolly Briton — 

" Speak low, woman, speak low !" 

And why should I speak low, sailor? 

About my own boy John ? 

If I was loud as I am proud 

I'd sing him over the town ! 

Why should I speak low, sailor ? — 

" That good ship went down." 



354 



THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 



How's my boy — my boy ? 

What care I for the ship, sailor, 

I never was aboard her. 

Be she afloat, or be she aground, 

Sinking or swimming, I'll De bound, 

Her owners can afford her ! 

I say, how's my John ? — 



" Every man on board went down, 
Every man aboard her." 

How's my boy — my boy ? 
What care I for the men, sailor ? 
I'm not their mother — 
How's my boy — my boy ? 
Tell me of him and no other I 
' How's my boy — my boy ? 



THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 



#a_ 




NE more unfortunate 
Weary of breath, 
Rashly importunate, 
Gone to her death ! 
Take her up tenderly, 
Lift her with care ; 
Fashioned so slenderly — 
Young, and so fair ! 



Look at her garments, 
Clinging like cerements, 
Whilst the wave constantly 

Drips from her clothing ; 
Take her up instantly, 

Loving, not loathing ! 

Touch her not scornfully ! 
Think of her mournfully, 

Gently and humanly — 
Not of the stains of her ; 
All that remains of her 

Now is pure womanly. 

Make no deep scrutiny, 
Into her mutiny, 

Rash and undutiful ; 
Past all dishonor, 
Death has left on her 

Only the beautiful. 

Still, for all slips of hers, — 
One of Eve's family, — 

Wipe those poor lips of hers, 
Oozing so clammily. 



THOMAS HOOD. 



Loop up her tresses 

Escaped from the comb,— 
Her fair auburn tresses, — 
Whilst wonderment guesses, 

Where was her home ? 

Who was her father? 

Who was her mother ? 

Had she a sister ? 

Had she a brother ? 
Or was there a dearer one 
Still, and a nearer one 

Yet, than all other ? 

Alas ! for the rarity 
Of Christian charity 

Under the sun ! 
Oh, it was pitiful ! 
Near a whole city full, 

Home she had none. 

Sisterly, brotherly, 
Fatherly, motherly 

Feelings had changed,— 
Love, by harsh evidence, 
Thrown from its eminence ; 
Even God's providence 

Seeming estranged. 

Where the lamps quiver 
So far in the river, 

With many a light 
From window and casement* 
From garret to basement, 
She stood, with amazement, 

Houseless by night. 



MORNING. 



355 



The bleak wind of March 

Made her tremble and shiver 
But not the dark arch, 

Or the black, flowing river ; 
Mad from life's history, 
Glad to death's mystery, 

Swift to be hurled — 
Anywhere, anywhere 

Out of the world ! 

In she plunged boldly, — 
No matter how coldly 

The rough river ran, — 
Over the brink of it ! 
Picture it, — think of it 

Dissolute man ! 
Lave in it, drink of it 

Then, if you can ! 

Take her up tenderly, 

Lift her with care ; 
Fashioned so slenderly, 

Young, and so fair ! 



Ere her limbs, frigidly, 
Stiffen too rigidly, 

Decently, kindly, 
Smooth and compose them ; 
And her eyes, close them, 

Staring so blindly ! — 
Dreadfully staring 

Through muddy impurity, 
As when with the daring 
Last look of despairing 

Fixed on futurity. 

Perishing gloomily, 
Spurred by contumely, 
Cold inhumanity, 
Burning insanity, 

Into her rest ! 
Cross her hands humbly, 
As if praying dumbly, 

Over her breast ! 
Owning her weakness, 

Her evil behaviour, 
And leaving, with meekness 

Her sins to her Saviour ! 






"Qggjim 






MORNING. 



EDWARD EVERETT. 



C&L 



fM&^> we proceeded, the timid approach of twilight became more per- 
$!Mm ceptible ; the intense blue of the sky began to soften ; the smaller 
stars, like little children, went first to rest ; the sister beams of the 
Pleiades soon melted together ; but the bright constellations of the 
west and north remained unchanged. Steadily the wondrous trans- 
figuration went on. Hands of angels hidden from mortal eyes shifted 



356 



A WOMAN'S QUESTION. 



the scenery of the heavens ; the glories of night dissolved into the glories 
of dawn. The blue sky now turned more softly gray ; the great watch- 
stars shut up their holy eyes ; the east began to kindle. Faint streaks of 
purple soon blushed along the sky; the whole celestial concave was filled 
with the inflowing tides of the morning light, which came pouring down 
from above in one great ocean of radiance ; till at length, as we reached the 
Blue Hills, a flash of purple fire blazed out from above the horizon, and 
turned the dewy tear-drops of flower and leaf into rubies and diamonds. 
In a few seconds the everlasting gates of the morning were thrown wide 
open, and the lord of day, arrayed in glories too severe for the gaze of 
man, began his state. 



THE PARTING LOVERS, 




TRANSLATED FROM THE CHINESE BY WILLIAM R. ALGER. 



ggHE says, " The cock crows, — hark !" 
He says, " No ! still 't is dark." 

She says, " The dawn grows bright," 
He says, " no, my Light." 

She says, " Stand up and say, 
Gets not the heaven gray?" 



He says, " The morning star 
Climbs the horizon's bar." 

She says, " Then quick depart: 
Alas ! you now must start ; 

But give the cock a blow 
Who did begin our woe !" 



A WOMAN'S QUESTION. 



ADELAIDE A. PROCTER. 




EFORE I trust my fate to thee, 
Or place my hand in thine, 
Before I let thy future give 

Color and form to mine, 
Before I peril all for thee, 
Question thy soul to-night for me. 



I break all slighter bonds, nor feel 

A shadow of regret : 
Is there one link within the past 

That holds thy spirit yet ? 
Or is thy faith as clear and free 
As that which I can pledge to thee ? 



Does there within thy dimmest dreams 

A possible future shine, 
Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe, 

Untouched, unshared by mine ? 
If so, at any pain or cost, 
0, tell me before all is lost ! 

Look deeper still : if thou canst feel, 

Within thy inmost soul, 
That thou hast kept a portion back, 

While I have staked the whole, 
Let no false pity spare the blow, 
But in true mercy tell me so. 



THE TIGER. 



357 



Is there within thy heart a need 

That mine cannot fulfil ? 
One chord that any other hand 

Could better wake or still ? 
Speak now, lest at some future day 
My whole life wither and decay. 

Lives there within thy nature hid 

The demon-spirit, change, 
Shedding a passing glory still 

On all things new and strange ? 
It may not be thy fault alone, — 
But shield my heart against thine own. 



Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day 

And answer to my claim, 
That fate, and that to-day's mistake, — 

Not thou, — had been to blame ? 
Some soothe their conscience thus ; but thou 
Wilt surely warn and save me now. 

Nay, answer not, — I dare not hear, 
The words would come too late ; 

Yet I would spare thee all remorse, 
So comfort thee, my fate : 

Whatever on my heart may fall, 

Remember I would risk it all ! 




THE TIGER. 



WILLIAM BLAKE. 




IGER ! tiger ! burning bright, ■ 
In the forest of the night, 
What immortal hand or eye 
Could frame thy fearful symmetry ? 

In what distant deeps or skies 
Burned the ardor of thine eyes ? 
On what wings dare he aspire ? 
What the hand dare seize the fire ? 



And what shoulder, and what art, 
Could twist the sinews of thy heart ? 
And when thy heart began to beat, 
What dread hand forged thy dread feet ? 

What the hammer ? what the chain ? 
In what furnace was thy brain ? 
What the anvil ? What dread grasp 
Dare its deadly terrors clasp ? 



358 



POOR LITTLE JOE. 



When the stars threw down their spears, 
And watered heaven with their tears, 
Did God smile his work to see ? 
Did He who made the lamb make thee ? 



Tiger! tiger! burning bright, 
In the forest of the night, 
What immortal hand or eye 
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry. 




THE CHURCH WINDOW. 



JNO. W. GOETHE. 



cfc 




HE minster window, richly glowing 

With many a gorgeous stain and dye, 
Itself a parable, is showing 
The might, the power of Poesy. 

Look on it from the open square, 
And it is only dark and dreary ; 
Yon blockhead views it always there, 
And vows its aspect makes him weary. 



But enter once the holy portal — 
What splendor bursts upon the eye ! 

There symbols, deeds and forms immortal, 
Are blazing forth in majesty. 

Be thankful, you who have the gift 
To read and feel each sacred story ; 

And, oh ! be reverent, when you lift 
Your eyes to look on heavenly glory. 



POOR LITTLE JOE. 




P. ARKWBJGHT. 



ROP yer eyes wide open Joey, 

For I've brought you sumpin' great. 
Apples f No, a heap sight better ! 

Don't you take no int'rest ? Wait ! 
Flowers, Joe — I know'd you'd like 
'em — 



Ain't them scrumptious ? Ain't them high ? 

Tears, my boy ? Wot's them fur, Joey ? 
There — poor little Joe ! — don't cry ! 

I was skippm' past a winder, 
Where a bang-up lady sot, 



THE LITTLE EVANGELIST. 



359 



All amongst a lot of bushes — 
Each one climbin' from a pot ; 

Every bush had flowers on it — 
Pretty f Mebbe not ! Oh, no ! 

Wish you could a seen 'em growin', 
It was sich a stunnin' show. 

Well, I thought of you, poor feller, 

Lyin' here so sick and weak, 
Never knowin' any comfort, 

And I puts on lots o' cheek. 
" Missus," says I, " If you please, mum, 

Could I ax you for a rose ? 
For my little brother, missus — 

Never seed one, I suppose." 

Then I told her all about you, — 

How I bringed you up — poor Joe ! 
(Lackin women folks to do it.) 

Sich a' imp you was, you know — 
Till yer got that awful tumble, 

Jist as I had broke yer in. 
(Hard work, too,) to earn yer livin' 

Blackm' boots frr honest tin. 

How that tumble crippled of you. 

So's you couldn't hyper much — 
Joe, it hurted when I seen you 

Fur the first time with yer crutch. 
" But," I says, " he's laid up now, mum, 

Tears to weaken every day ;" 
Joe, she up and went to cuttm' — 

That's the how of this bokay. 



Say ! It seems to me, ole feller, 

You is quite yerself to-night ; 
Kind o' chirk — it's been a fortnit 

Sence yer eyes has been so bright. 
Better f Well, I'm glad to hear it ! 

Yes, they're mighty pretty, Joe. 
Smellin of 'ems made you happy f 

Well, I thought it would, you know I 

Never see the country, did you ? 

Flowers growin' everywhere ! 
Some time when you're better, Joey, 

Mebbe I kin take you there. 
Flowers in heaven f 'M — I s'pose so ; 

Dunno much about it, though ; 
Ain't as fly as wot I might be 

On them topics, little Joe. 

But I've heard it hinted somewheres 

That in heaven's golden gates 
Things is everlastin' cheerful — 

B'lieve that's wot the Bible states. 
Likewise, there folks don't git hungry ; 

So good people, when they dies, 
Finds themselves well fixed forever — 

Joe, my boy, wot ails yer eyes ? 

Thought they looked a little sing'ler. 

Oh, no ! Don't you have no fear ; 
Heaven was made fur such as you is — 

Joe, wot makes you look so queer? 
Here — wake up ! Oh, don't look that way ! 

Joe ! My boy ! Hold up yer head ! 
Here's yer flowers — you dropped 'em Joey ! 

Oh, my God, can Joe be dead t 



THE LITTLE EVANGELIST. 



HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 




pME here, Tops, you monkey !" said St. Clare, calling the child up 
to him. 

Topsy came up ; her round, hard eyes glittering and blinking 
with a mixture of apprehensiveness and their usual odd drollery. 
" What makes you behave so ?" said St. Clare, who could not help 
being amused with the child's expression. 



360 THE LITTLE EVANGELIST. 

"Spects it's my wicked heart," said Topsy, demurely; "Miss Feely 
says so." 

" Don't you see how much Miss Ophelia has done for you ? She says 
she has done every thing she can think of." 

" Lor, yes, Mas'r I old Missus used to say so, too. She whipped me 
a heap harder, and used to pull my har, and knock my head agin the door; 
but it didn't do me no good ! I spects, if they's to pull every spear o' har 
out o' my head it wouldn't do no good, neither — I's so wicked ! Laws ! 
I's nothin' but a nigger, no ways !" 

"Well, I shall have to give her up," said Miss Ophelia; "I can't 
have that trouble any longer." 

" Well, I'd just like to ask one question," said St. Clare. 

"What is it?" 

" Why, if your Gospel is not strong enough to save one heathen 
child, that you can have at home here, all to yourself, what's the use of 
sending one or two poor missionaries off with it among thousands of just 
such ? I suppose this child is about a fair sample of what thousands of 
your heathen are." 

Miss Ophelia did not make an immediate answer ; and Eva, who had 
•stood a silent spectator of the scene thus far, made a silent sign to Topsy 
to follow her. There was a little glass room at the corner of the verandah, 
which St. Clare used as a sort of reading-room ; and Eva and Topsy dis- 
appeared into this place. 

" What's Eva going about now ?" said St. Clare ; " I mean to see." 

And advancing on tiptoe, he lifted up a curtain that covered the 
glass door, and looked in. In a moment, laying his finger on his lips, he 
made a silent gesture to Miss Ophelia to come and look. There sat the 
two children on the floor, with their side faces towards them, Topsy with 
her usual air of careless drollery and unconcern ; but opposite to her, Eva, 
her whole face fervent with feeling, and tears in her large eyes. 

" What does make you so bad, Topsy ? Why won't you try and be 
good ? Don't you love anybody, Topsy ?" 

" Dunno nothin' 'bout love ; I loves candy and sich, that's all," said 
Topsy. 

" But you love your father and mother ?" 

" Never had none, ye know. I telled ye that, Miss Eva." 

" Oh, I know," said Eva, sadly ; " but had you any brother, or sister, 
or aunt, or — " 

" No, none on 'em — never had nothin' nor nobody." 

" But, Topsy, if you'd only try and be good, you might — " 



THE LITTLE EVANGELIST. 361 

" Couldn't never be nothin' but a nigger if I war ever so good," said 
Topsy. " If I could be skinned, and come white, I'd try then." 

" But people can love you, if you are black, Topsy. Miss Ophelia 
would love you, if you were good." 

Topsy gave a short, blunt laugh that was her common mode of ex- 
pressing incredulity. 

" Don't you think so ?" said Eva. 

" No ; she can't bar me, 'cause I'm a nigger — she'd 's soon have a 
toad touch her ! There can't nobody love niggers, and niggers can't do 
nothin'! /don't care," said Topsy, beginning to whistle. 

" Oh, Topsy, poor child, I love you !" said Eva, with a sudden burst 
of feeling, and laying her little thin, white hand on Topsy 's shoulder; "I 
love you, because you haven't had any father, or mother or friends ; because 
you've been a poor, abused child ! I love you, and I want you to be good. 
I am very unwell, Topsy, and I think I shan't live a great while ; and it 
really grieves me to have you be so naughty. I wish you would try to 
be good for my sake — it's only a little while I shall be with you." 

The round, keen eyes of the black child were overcast with tears — 
large, bright drops rolled heavily down, one by one, and fell on the little 
white hand. Yes, in that moment a ray of real belief, a ray of heavenly 
love had penetrated the darkness of her heathen soul ! She laid her head 
down between her knees, and wept and sobbed — while the beautiful child, 
bending over her, looked like the picture of some bright angel stooping to 
reclaim a sinner. 

" Poor Topsy!" said Eva, " Don't you know that Jesus loves all 
alike? He is just as willing to love you as me. He loves you just as I 
do — only more, because He is better. He will help you to be good ; and 
you can go to heaven at last, and be an angel forever, just as much as if 
you were white. Only think of it, Topsy ! you can be one of those spirits 
bright, Uncle Tom sings about." 

"0, dear Miss Eva, dear Miss Eva!" said the child; "I will try; I 
never did care nothin' about it before." 

St. Clare, at that instant, dropped the curtain. " It puts me in mind 
of mother," he said to Miss Ophelia. " It is true what she told me ; if 
we want to give sight to the blind, we must be willing to do as Christ did 
— call them to us, and. put our hands on them. 11 

" I've always had a prejudice against negroes," said Miss Ophelia, 
" and it's a fact, I never could bear to have that child touch me ; but I 
didn't think she knew it." 

"Trust any child to find that out," said St. Clare; " there's no keep- 



362 



THE CAVE OF SILVER. 



ing it from them. But I believe that all the trying in the world to benefit 
a child, and all the substantial favors you can do them, will never excite 
one emotion of gratitude while that feeling of repugnance remains in the 
heart — it's a queer kind of a fact— but so it is." 

" I don't know how I can help it," said Miss Ophelia ; " they are 
disagreeable to me — this child in particular — how can I help feeling so ?" 

" Eva does, it seems." 

" Well, she is so loving ! After all though, she's no more than Christ- 
like," said Miss Ophelia ; " I wish I were like her. She might teach me a 
lesson." 

" It wouldn't be the first time a little child has been used to instruct 
an old disciple, if it were so," said St. Clare. 



THE SEA. 




BARRY CORNWALL. 



HE sea! the sea! the open sea ! 
The blue, the fresh, the ever free ! 
Without a mark, without a bound, 
It runneth the earth's wide region 

round ; 
It plays with the clouds ; it mocks 

the skies ; 
Or like a cradled creature lies. 



I'm on the sea ! I'm on the sea ! 

I am where I would ever be ! 

With the blue above, and the blue below, 

And silence wheresoe'er I go ; 

If a storm should come and wake the deep, 

What matter ? I shall ride and sleep. 

I never was on the dull tame shore, 

But I love the great sea more and more, 



And backward flew to her billowy breast, 
Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest : 




And a mother she was, and is to me, 
For I was born on the open sea. 



THE CA VE OF SIL VER. 




FITZ-JAMES O BRIEN. 



EEK me the cave of silver ! 
B Find me the cave of silver ! 
• Rifle the cave of silver ! 

Said Ilda to Brok the Bold: 



So you may kiss me often ; 
So you may ring my finger ; 
So you may bind my true love 
In the round hoop of gold 1 




'I love, O, how I love to ride 



Where every mad w; 



:ne moon 
si top 



LORD DUNDREARY AT BRIGHTON. 



363 



Bring me no skins of foxes ; 
Bring me no beds of eider ; 
Boast not your fifty vessels 

That fish in the northern sea ; 
For I would lie upon velvet, 
And sail in a golden galley, 
And naught but the cave of silver 

Will win my true love for thee. 

Rena, the witch, hath told me 
That up in the wild Lapp moun- 
tains 
There lieth a cave of silver, 

Down deep in a valley-side ; 
So gather your lance and rifle, 
And speed to the purple pastures, 
And seek ye the cave of silver 

As you seek me for your bride. 

I go said Brok, right proudly ; 
I go to the purple pastures, 
To seek for the cave of silver 

So long as my life shall hold ; 
But when the keen Lapp arrows 
Are fleshed in the heart that 

loves you, 
I'll leave my curse on the woman 

Who slaughtered Brok the Bold ! 

But Ilda laughed as she shifted 
The Bergen scarf on her shoulder, 
And pointed her small white finger 

Right up at the mountain gate ; 
And cried, my gallant sailor, 
You're brave enough to the fishes, 
But the Lappish arrow is keener 

Than the back of the thorny skate ! 

The Summer passed, and the Winter 
Came down from the icy ocean : 
But back from the cave of silver 
Returned not Brok the Bold ; 



And Ilda waited and waited, 
And sat at the door till sunset, 
And gazed at the wild Lapp mountains 
That blackened the skies of gold. 

I want not a cave of silver ! 
I care for no caves of silver ! 




far beyond caves of silver 
I pine for my Brok the Bold ! 

ye strong Norwegian gallants, 

Go seek for my lovely lover, 

And bring him to ring my finger 
With the round hoop of gold ! 

But the brave Norwegian gallants 
They laughed at the cruel maiden, 
And left her sitting in sorrow, 

Till her heart and her face grew old 
While she moaned of the cave of silver, 
And moaned of the wild Lapp mountains, 
And him who never will ring her 

With the round hoop of gold ! 



LORD DUNDREARY AT BRIGHTON. 



iRiWIGIiTON is filling fast now. You see dwoves of ladies evewy day 
on horseback, widing about in all diwections. By the way, I — I 
muthn't forget to mention that I met those two girls that always 



364 



THE EAGLE. 



laugh when they thee me, at a tea-fight. One of 'em — the young one 
— told me, when I was intwoduced to her, — in — in confidence, mind, — 
that she had often heard of me and of my middles. Tho you thee I'm 
getting quite a weputathun that way. The other morning at Mutton's, she 
wath ch-chaffing me again, and begging me to tell her the latetht thing in 
widdles. Now I hadn't heard any mythelf for thome time, tho I couldn't 
give her any vewy great novelty, but a fwiend of mine made one latht 
theason which I thought wather neat, tho I athked her, When ith a jar 
not a jar? Thingularly enough, the moment she heard thith widdle she 
burtht out laughing behind her pocket handkerchief! 

" Good gwacious ! what'th the matter ?" said I. " Have you ever 
heard it before?" 

" Never," she said, " in that form; do please tell me the answer." 

So I told her, — When it ith a door ! Upon which she —she went off again 
into hystewics. I — I — I — never did see such a girl for laughing. I know 
it's a good widdle, but I didn't think it would have such an effect as that. 

By the way, Sloper told me afterwards that he thought he had heard 
the widdle before, somewhere, but it was put in a different way. He said 
it was : When ith a door not a door ? — and the answer, When it ith ajar ! 

I— I've been thinking over the matter lately, and though I dare thay it 
— d-don't much matter which way the question is put, still — pwaps the last 
f-form is the betht. It — it seems to me to wead better. What do you think? 

Now I weckomember, I made thuch a jolly widdle the other day on 
the Ethplanade. I thaw a fellah with a big New — Newfoundland dog, 
and he inthpired me — the dog, you know, not the fellah, — he wath a 
lunatic. I'm keeping the widdle but I don't mind telling you. 

Why does a dog waggle his tail ? Give it up ? I think motht fellahs 
will give that up ! 

You thee the dog waggles his tail becauth the dog's stwonger than 
the tail. If he wathn't the tail would waggle the dog ! 

Ye-eth, — that'th what I call a widdle. If I can only wecollect him, I 
shall athtonish those two girls thome of these days. 



THE EAGLE. 



TENNYSON. 




?E clasps the crag with hooked hands, 
I Close to the sun in lonely lands, 
-o^-^P Ringed with the azure world he stands. 



The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls : 
He watches from his mountain walls. 
And like a thunderbolt he falls. 



THE PAUPER'S FUNERAL. 



m 



THE BLIND BOY. 



COLLEY CIBBER. 




SAY what is that thing called Light, 
Which I must ne'er enjoy ? 
What are the blessings of the sight, 
0, tell your poor blind boy ! 



4» You talk of wondrous things you 
You say the sun shines bright ; 
I feel him warm, but how can he 
Or make it day or night ? 

My day or night myself I make 
Whene'er I sleep or play ; 



And could I ever keep awake 
With me 't were always day. 

With heavy sighs I often hear 
You mourn my hapless woe ; 

But sure with patience I can bear 
A loss I ne'er can know. 

Then let not what I cannot have 
My cheer of mind destroy : 

Whilst thus I sing, I am a king, 
Although a poor blind boy. 



THE PAUPER'S FUNERAL. 



CHARLES DICKENS. 




IHERE was no fire in the room ; but a man was crouching mechani- 
cally over the empty stove. An old woman, too, had drawn a stool 
to the cold hearth, and was sitting beside him. There were some 
ragged children in another corner ; and in a small recess, opposite 
the door, there lay upon the ground something covered with an old 
blanket. Oliver shuddered as he cast his eyes towards the place, and 
crept involuntarily closer to his master ; for, though it was covered up, the 
boy felt that it was a corpse. 

The man's face was thin and very pale ; his hair and beard were grizzly, 
and his eyes were bloodshot. The old woman's face was wrinkled, her two 
remaining teeth protruded over her under lip, and her eyes were bright 
and piercing. 

" Nobody shall go near her," said the man, starting fiercely up as the 
undertaker approached the recess. " Keep back ! d — n you — keep back, 
if you've a life to lose !" 

" Nonsense, my good man," said the undertaker, who was pretty well 
used to misery in all its shapes — " nonsense !" 

"I tell you," said the man," clenching his hands and stamping furiously 
on the floor — " I tell you I won't have her put into the ground. She 
couldn't rest there. The worms would worry — not eat her — she is so worn 
away." 



3b6 THE PAUPER'S FUNERAL. 

The undertaker offered no reply to this raving, but producing a tape 
from his pocket, knelt down for a moment by the side of the body. 

" Ah !" said the man, bursting into tears, and sinking on his knees at 
the feet of the dead woman ; " kneel down, kneel down ; kneel around her 
every one of you, and mark my words. I say she starved to death. I 
never knew how bad she was till the fever came upon her, and then her 
bones were starting through the skin. There was neither fire nor candle ; 
she died in the dark — in the dark ! She couldn't even see her children's 
faces, though we heard her gasping out their names. I begged for her in 
the streets, and they sent me to prison. When I came back she was 
dying ; and all the blood in my heart has dried up, for they starved her to 
death. I swear it before the God that saw it — they starved her!" He 
twined his hands in his hair, and with a loud scream rolled grovelling upon 
the floor, his eyes fixed, and the* foam gushing from his lips. 

The terrified children cried bitterly ; but the old woman, who had hith- 
erto remained as quiet as if she had been wholly deaf to all that passed, 
menaced them into silence ; and having unloosened the man's cravat, 
who still remained extended on the ground, tottered towards the under- 
taker. 

" She was my daughter," said the old woman, nodding her head in the 
direction of the corpse, and speaking with an idiotic leer more ghastly than 
even the presence of death itself. " Lord, Lord ! well it is strange that I 
who gave birth to her, and was a woman then, should be alive and merry 
now, and she lying so cold and stiff! Lord, Lord ! — to think of it; it's as 
good as a play, as good as a play !" 

As the wretched creature mumbled and chuckled in her hideous merri- 
ment, the undertaker turned to go away. 

" Stop, stop !" said the old woman in a loud whisper. " Will she be 
buried to-morrow, or next day, or to-night ? I laid her out, and I must 
walk, you know. Send me a large cloak ; a good warm one, for it is bitter 
cold. We should have cake and wine, too, before we go ! Never mind : 
send some bread ; only a loaf of bread and a cup of water. Shall we have 
some bread, dear ?" she said eagerly, catching at the undertaker's coat as 
he once more moved towards the door. 

"Yes, yes," said the undertaker; " of course : anything, everything." 
He disengaged himself from the old woman's grasp, and, dragging Oliver 
after him, hurried away. 

The next day — the family having been meanwhile relieved with a half- 
quartern loaf, and a piece of cheese, left with them by Mr. Bumble himself 
—Oliver and his master returned to the miserable abode, where Mr. Bum- 



WHAT CONSTITUTES A STATE. 



36! 



hie had already arrived, accompanied by four men from the work-house 
wLo were to act as bearers. An old black cloak had been thrown over the 
rags of the old woman and the man ; the bare coffin having been screwed 
down, was then hoisted on the shoulders of the bearers, and carried down 
stairs into the street. 



RUTH. 



THOMAS HOOD. 




|Pf HE stood breast high amid the corn, 
Clasped by the golden light of morn, 
Like the sweetheart of the sun, 
Who many a glowing kiss hath won. 

On her cheek an autumn flush 
Deeply ripened ; — such a blush 
In the midst of brown was born, 
Like red poppies grown with corn. 

Bound her eyes her tresses fell, — - 
Which were blackest none could tell ; 



But long lashes veiled a light 
That had else been all too bright. 

And her hat, with shady brim, 
Made her tressy forehead dim ; — 
Thus she stood amid the stooks, 
Praising God with sweetest looks. 

Sure, I said, Heaven did not mean 
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean ; 
Lay thy sheaf adown and come, 
Share my harvest and my home. 



WHAT CONSTITUTES A STATE? 



SIR WILLIAM JONES. 




HAT constitutes a state ? 
Not high-raised battlement or 

labored mound, 
Thick wall or moated gate ; 
Not cities proud with spires and 

turret-crowned ; 
Not bays and broad-armed ports, 
Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies 
ride ; 
Not starred and spangled courts, 
Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume 
to pride. 

No:— nnen, high-minded men, 
With powers as far above dull brutes endued 
In forest, brake, or den, 



As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude, 

Men who their duties know, 
But know their rights, and, knowing, dare 
maintain, 

Prevent the long- aimed blow, 
And crush the tyrant while they rend the 
chain ; 

These constitute a state ; 
And sovereign law, that state's collected wilL 

O'er thrones and globes elate, 
Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill, 

Smit by her sacred frown, 
The fiend, Dissension, like a vapor sinks; 

And e'en the all-dazzling crown 
Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding 
shrinks ; 



368 



THE DOOR-STEP. 



Such was this heaven-loved isle, 
Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore ! 

No more shall freedom smile ? 
Shall Britons languish, and be men no more ? 



Since all must life resign, 
Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave 

'T is folly to decline, 
And steal inglorious to the silent grave. 



THE REAPER. 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 



■ gffia . 




EHOLD her single in the field, 
Yon solitary Highland Lass ! 
Reaping and singing by herself; 
Stop here, or gently pass ! 
Alone she cuts and binds the grain, 
And sings a melancholy strain ; 
listen ! for the vale profound 
Is overflowing with the sound. 




No nightingale did ever chant 
More welcome notes to weary bands 
Of travelers in some shady haunt 



Among Arabian sands ; 
No sweeter voice was ever heard 
In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird 
Breaking the silence of the seas 
Among the farthest Hebrides. 

Will no one tell me what she sings ? 
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 
For old, unhappy, far-off things, 
And battles long ago : 
Or is it some more humble lay, 
Familiar matter of to-day ? 
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain. 
That has been, and may be again ! 

Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang 
As if her song could have no ending ; 
I saw her singing at her work, 
And o'er the sickle bending; 
I listened till I had my fill ; 
And as I mounted up the hill 
The music in my heart I bore 
Long after it was heard no mop- 



THE DOOR-STEP. 



EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. 



385 



|HE conference meeting through at last, 
We boys around the vestry waited, 
£SpQ To see the girls come tripping past 

Like snow-birds willing to be 
T mated. 

Not braver he that leaps the wall, 
By level musket-flashes litten, 



Than I, who stepped before them all 
Who longed to see me get the mitten. 

But no, she blushed and took my arm ! 

We let the old folks have the highwry, 
And started toward the Maple Farm, 

Along a kind of lovers' by-way. 



THE DOOR-STEP. 



369 



I can't remember what we said, 

'Twas nothing worth a song or story, 

Yet that rude path by which we sped 
Seemed all transformed and in a ^lory. 



The little hand outside her muff— 
sculptor, if you could but mould it 1 

So slightly touched my jacket-cuff, 
To keeD it warm I had to hold it. 




The snow was crisp beneath our feet, 

The moon was full, the fields were gleaming ; 

By hood and tippet sheltered sweet 

Her face with youth and health was 
beaming. 

24: 



To have her with me there alone, 
'Twas love and fear and triumph 
blended : 

At last we reached the foot-worn stone 
Where that delicious journey endeu. 



370 



REGULUS TO THE ROMAN SENATE. 



She shook her ringlets from her hood, 

And with a " Thank you Ned," dissembled, 

But yet I knew she understood 

With what a daring wish I trembled. 

A cloud passed kindly overhead, 

The moon was slyly peeping through it, 

Yet hid its face, as if it said, 

" Come, now or never, do it, do it !" 



My lips till then had only known 
The kiss of mother and of sister, 

But somehow full upon her own 

Sweet, rosy, darling mouth — I kissed her ! 

Perhaps 'twas boyish love, yet still, 
listless woman ! weary lover ! 

To feel once more that fresh wild thrill, 
I'd give — But who can live youth over ? 



SONNET FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 



ELIZABETH B. BROWNING. 




jfJKIRST time he kissed me, he but only 
kissed 
'The fingers of this hand wherewith I 

write ; 
And, ever since, it grew more clean and 

white, 
Slow to world-greetings, quick with its 
"Olist!" 
When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst 
I could not wear here, plainer to my sight 
Than that first kiss. The second passed in 
height 



The first, and sought the forehead, and hail 
missed, 

Half falling on the hair. 0, beyond meed ! 

That was the chrism of love, which love's 
own crown, 

With sanctifying sweetness, did precede. 

The third upon my lips was folded down 

In perfect, purple state ; since when, in- 
deed, 

I have been proud, and said, " My love, my 



REGULUS TO THE ROMAN SENATE. 



jLL does it become me, Senators of Rome, — ill does it become Regu- 
lus, after having so often stood in this venerable assembly clothed 
with the supreme dignity of the Republic, to stand before you a 
captive, — the captive of Carthage. Though outwardly I am free, 
though no fetters encumber the limbs, or gall the flesh, — yet the 
heaviest of chains, — the pledge of a Roman Consul, — makes me the 
bondsman of the Carthaginians. They have my promise to return to them, 
in the event of the failure of this, their embassy. My life is at their 
mercy. My honor is my own ; — a possession which no reverse of fortune 
can jeopard ; a flame which imprisonment cannot stifle, time cannot dim, 
death cannot extinguish. 

Of the train of disasters which followed close on the unexampled 
successes of our arms, — of the bitter fate which swept off the flower of 



REGULUS TO THE ROMAN SENATE. 371 

our soldiery, and consigned me, your General, wounded and senseless, to 
Carthaginian keeping, — I will not speak. For live years, a rigorous cap- 
tivity has been my portion. For five years, the society of family and 
friends, the dear amenities of home, the sense of freedom, and the sight of 
country, have been to me a recollection and a dream, — no more. But 
during that period Rome has retrieved her defeats. She has recovered 
under Metellus what under Regulus she lost. She has routed armies. She 
has taken unnumbered prisoners. She has struck terror into the heart of 
the Carthaginians, who have now sent me hither with their ambassadors to 
sue for peace, and to propose that, in exchange for me, your former Consul, 
a thousand common prisoners of war shall be given up. You have heard 
the ambassadors. Their intimations of some unimaginable horror, I know 
not what, impending over myself, should I fail to induce you to accept their 
terms, have strongly moved your sympathies in my behalf. Another 
appeal, which I would you might have been spared, has lent force to their 
suit. A wife and children, threatened with widowhood and orphanage, 
weeping and despairing, have knelt at your feet on the very threshold of 
the Senate-chamber : — Conscript Fathers ! shall not Regulus be saved ? 
Must he return to Carthage to meet the cruelties which the ambassadors 
brandish before our eyes ? With one voice you answer, No ! . . 

Countrymen ! Friends ! For all that I have suffered, — for all that 
I may have to suffer, — I am repaid in the compensation of this moment ! 
Unfortunate you may hold me ; but 0, not undeserving ! Your confidence 
in my honor survives all the ruin that adverse fortune could inflict. You , 
have not forgotten the past. Republics are not ungrateful. May the 
thanks I cannot utter bring down blessings from the gods on you and 
Rome ! 

Conscript Fathers ! There is but one course to be pursued. Abandon 
all thought of peace. Reject the overtures of Carthage. Reject them 
wholly and unconditionally. What ! give back to her a thousand able- 
bodied men, and receive in return this one attenuated, war-worn, fever- 
wasted frame, — this weed, whitened in a dungeon's darkness, pale and 
sapless, which no kindness of the sun, no softness of the summer breeze, 
can ever restore to health and vigor ? It must not, — it shall not be ! ! 
were Regulus what he was once, before captivity had unstrung his sinews 
and enervated his limbs, he might pause, — he might proudly think he were 
well worth a thousand of the foe ; he might say, " Make the exchange ! 
Rome shall not lose by it!" But now, alas! now 'tis gone, — that impetu- 
osity of strength, which could once make him a leader indeed, to penetrate 
a phalanx or guide a pursuit. His very armor would be a burthen now. 



372 



LEFT ALONE AT EIGHTY. 



His battle-cry would be drowned in the din of the onset. His sword would 
fall harmless on his opponent's shield. But if he cannot live, he can at 
least die for his country. Do not deny him this supreme consolation. 
Consider : every indignity, every torture, which Carthage shall heap on 
his dying hours, will be better than a trumpet's call to your armies. They 
will remember only Regulus, their fellow-soldier and their leader. They 
will regard only his services to the Republic. Tunis, Sardinia, Sicily, — 
every well-fought field, won by his blood and theirs — will flash on their 
remembrance, and kindle their avenging wrath. And so shall Regulus, 
though dead, fight as he never fought before against the foe. 

Conscript Fathers ! There is another theme. My family, — forgive 
the thought ! To you and to Rome I confide them. I leave them no 
legacy but my name, — no testament but my example. 

Ambassadors of Carthage ! I have spoken, though not as you 
expected. I am your captive. Lead me back to whatever fate may await 
me. Doubt not that you shall find, to Roman hearts, country is dearer 
than life, and integrity more precious than freedom ! 



LEFT ALONE AT EIGHTY. 




ALICE BOBBINS. 



HAT did you say, dear, — breakfast ? 

Somehow I've slept too late ; 
You are very kind, dear Effie ; 

Go tell them not to wait. 
I'll dress as quick as ever I can, 

My old hands tremble sore, 
And Polly, who used to help, dear 
heart, 
Lies t'other side of the door. 



Put up the old pipe, deary, 

I couldn't smoke to-day : 
I'm sort o' dazed and frightened, 

And don't know what to say. 
It's lonesome in the house here, 

And lonesome out o' door — 
I never knew what lonesome meant 

In all my life before. 

The bees go humming the whole day long, 
And the first June rose has blown ; 



And I am eighty, dear Lord, to-day, 

Too old to be left alone ! 
Oh, heart of love ! so still and cold, 

Oh, precious lips so white ! 
For the first sad hours in sixty years, 

You were out of my reach last night. 

You've cut the flower. You're very kind ; 

She rooted it last May. 
It was only a slip ; I pulled the rose, 

And threw the stem away. 
But she, sweet, thrifty soul, bent down, 

And planted it where she stood ; 
" Dear, maybe the flowers are living," she 
said, 

" Asleep in this bit of wood." 

I can't rest, dear — I cannot rest ; 

Let the old man have his will, 
And wander from porch to garden-post — 

The house is so deathly still ; — 



SOMETIME. 



373 



Wander, and long for a sight of the gate 

She has left ajar for me ; 
We had got so used to each other, dear, 

So used to each other, you see. 

Sixty years, and so wise and good, 

She made me a better man ; 
From the moment I kissed her fair young face, 

Our lover's life began. 
And seven fine boys she has given me, 

And out of the seven not one 
But the noblest father in all the land 

Would be proud to call his son. 

Oh, -well, dear Lord, I'll be patient ! 
But I feel sore broken up ; 



At eighty years it's an awesome thing 

To drain su«h a bitter cup. 
I know there's Joseph, and John, and Hal, 

And four good men beside ; 
But a hundred sons couldn't be to me, 

Like the woman I made my bride. 

My little Polly — so bright and fair ! 

So winsome and good and sweet ! 
She had roses twined in her sunny hair, 

And white shoes upon her feet ; 
And I held her hand — was it yesterday 

That we stood up to be wed ? 
And — no, I remember, I'm eighty to-day, 

And my dear wife Polly is dead. 



SOMETIME. 



MARY EILEY SMITH. 






SOMETIME, when all life's 
have been learned, 
And sun and stars forevermore have 

set, 
The things which our weak judg- 
ments here have spurned — 
■!• The things o'er which we grieved 
with lashes wet — 
Will flash before us out of life's dark night, 
As stars shine most in deepest tints of blue, 
And we shall see how all God's plans were 
right, 
And how what seemed reproof was love 
most true. 

And we shall see how while we frown and 
sigh, 

God's plans go on as best for you and me ; 
How, when we called, he heeded not our cry, 

Because his wisdom to the end could see, 
And e'en as prudent parents disallowed 

Too much of sweet to craving babyhood, 
So God, perhaps, is keeping from us now 

Life's sweetest things, because it seemeth 
good. 

And if sometimes commingled with life's wine, 
We find the wormwood, and rebel and 
shrink, 



Be sure a wiser hand than yours or mine 
Pours out this potion for our lips to drink ; 

And if some friend we love is lying low 
Where human kisses cannot reach his face, 

Oh, do not blame the loving Father so, 
But wear your sorrows with obedient grace. 

And you shall shortly know that lengthened 
breath 

Is not the sweetest gift God sends his friends, 
And that sometimes the sable pall of death 

Conceals the fairest boon his love can send. 
If we could push ajar the gates of life, 

And stand within and all God's workings 
see, 
We could interpret all this doubt and strife, 

And for each mystery could find a key. 

But not to-day. Then be content, poor heart * 
God's plans, like lilies, pure and white un- 
fold ; 
We must not tear the close shut leaves apart — 

Time will reveal the calyxes of gold ; 
And if through patient toil we reach the land 
Where tired feet, with sandals loosed, may 
rest, 
When we shall clearly know and understand, 
I think that we will say, "God knew the 
best." 



374 



SONG OF BIRDS. 



As»l 



^ - -i 




SONG OF BIRDS. 




THOMAS 

JACK, clouds, away ! and welcome, day ! 
With night we banish sorrow : 
••^Sweet air, blow soft ! mount lark, aloft ! 

To give my love good-morrow. 
Wings from the wind to please her mind, 
Notes from the lark I'll borrow ; 
Bird, prune thy wing ! nightingale, sing ! 
To give my love good-morrow : 
To give my love good-morrow 
Notes from them all I'll borrow. 



HEYWOOD. 



Wake from thy rest, robin red-breast ! 
Sing, birds, in every furrow ! 

And from each hill let music shrill 

Give my fair love good-morrow. 

Blackbird and thrush in every bush, 

Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow ! 

You pretty elves, among yourselves, 

Sing my fair love good-morrow: 
To give my love good-morrow 
Sing, birds, in every furrow. 



MR. PICKWICK IN THE WRONG ROOM. 



375 



WIDOW MAIONE. 




CHARLES LEVER. 



»ID you hear of the Widow Malone, 
Ohone ! 
Who lived in the town of Athlone, 
Alone ! 
0, she melted the hearts 
Of the swains in them parts: 
So lovely the Widow Malone, 

Ohone ! 
So lovely the Widow Malone. 

Of lovers she had a full score, 

Or more, 
And fortunes they all had galore, 
In store ; 
From the minister down 
To the clerk of the Crown 
All were courting the Widow Malone, 

Ohone ! 
All were courting the Widow Malone. 

But so modest was Mistress Malone, 

'T was known 
That no one could see her alone, 
Ohone ! 
Let them ogle and sigh, 
They could ne'er catch her eye, 
So bashful the Widow Malone, 
Ohone ! 
So bashful the Widow Malone. 



Till one Misther O'Brien, from Clare, 

(How quare ! 
It's little for blushing they care 

Down there,) 
Put his arm round her waist, — 
.Gave ten kisses at laste, — 
" 0," says he, "you're my Molly Malone, 

My own ! 
0," says be, " you're my Molly Malone !" 

And the widow they all thought so shy, 

My eye ! 
Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh, — 
For why ? 
But, " Lucius," says she, 
" Since you've now made so free, 
You may marry your Mary Malone, 

Ohone ! 
You may marry your Mary Malone." 

There's a moral contained in my song, 

Not wrong ; 
And one comfort, it's not very long, 
But strong, — 
If for widows you die, 
Learn to kiss, not to sigh ; 
For they're all like sweet Mistress Malone, 

Ohone ! 
0, they're all like sweet Mistress Malone ! 



MR. PICKWICK IN THE WRONG ROOM. 



CHARLES DICKENS. 




gEAR, me, it's time to go to bed. It will never do, sitting here. I 
shall be pale to-morrow, Mr. Pickwick I" 

At the bare notion of such a calamity, Mr. Peter Magnus rang 
f the bell for the chambermaid; and the striped bag, the red bag, 
* the leather hat-box, and the brown-paper parcel, having been 
conveyed to his bed-room, he retired in company with a japanned candle- 
stick to one side of the house, while Mr. Pickwick, and another japanned 



376 MR. PICKWICK IN THE WRONG ROOM. 

candlestick, were conducted through a multitude of tortuous windings, to 
another. 

" This is your room, sir," said the chambermaid. 

" Very well," replied Mr. Pickwick, looking round him. It was a 
tolerably large double-bedded room, with a fire ; upon the whole, a more 
comfortable-Jooking apartment than Mr. Pickwick's short experience of the 
accommodations of the Great White Horse had led him to expect. 

" Nobody sleeps in the other bed, of course," said Mr. Pickwick. 

" Oh, no, sir." 

" Very good. Tell my servant to bring me up some hot water at half- 
past eight in the morning, and that I shall not want him any more to- 
night." 

" Yes, sir." And bidding Mr. Pickwick good-night, the chambermaid 
retired, and left him alone. 

Mr. Pickwick sat himself down in a chair before the fire, and fell into 
a train of rambling meditations, when he recollected he had left his watch 
on the table down stairs. The possibility of going to sleep, unless it were 
ticking gently beneath his pillow, or in his watch-pocket over his head, 
had never entered Mr. Pickwick's brain. So as it was pretty late now, and 
he was unwilling to ring his bell at that hour of the night, he slipped on 
his coat, of which he had just divested himself, and taking the japanned 
candlestick in his hand, walked quietly down stairs. 

The more stairs Mr. Pickwick went down, the more stairs there seemed 
to be to descend, and again and again, when Mr. Pickwick got into some 
narrow passage, and began to congratulate himself on having gained the 
ground-floor, did another flight of stairs appear before his astonished 
eyes. At last he reached a stone hall, which he remembered to have seen 
when he entered the house. Passage after passage did he explore ; room 
after room did he peep into ; at length, just as he was on the point of 
giving up the search in despair, he opened the dooi of the identical room 
in which he had spent the evening, and beheld his missing property on the 
table. 

Mr. Pickwick seized the watch in triumph, and proceeded to retrace 
his steps to his bed-chamber. If his progress downwards had been 
attended with difficulties and uncertainty, his journey back was infinitely 
more perplexing, He was reduced to the verge of despair, when an open 
door attracted his attention. He peeped in — right at last. There were 
the two beds, whose situation he perfectly remembered, and the fire still 
burning. His candle, not a long one when he first received it, had 
flickered away in the drifts of air through which he had passed, and sank 



MR. PICKWICK IN THE WRONG ROOM. 377 

into the socket, just as he closed the door after him. "No matter," said 
Mr. Pickwick, " I can undress myself just as well by the light of the fire." 

" It is the best idea," said Mr. Pickwick to himself, smiling till he almost 
cracked the night-cap strings — " It is the best idea, my losing myself in 
this place, and wandering about those staircases, that I ever heard of. Droll, 
droll, very droll." Here Mr. Pickwick smiled again, a broader smile than 
before, and was about to continue the process of undressing, in the best 
humor, when he was suddenly stopped by a most unexpected interruption : 
to wit, the entrance into the room of some person with a candle, who, after 
locking the door, advanced to the dressing-table, and set down the light 
upon it. 

Mr. Pickwick almost fainted with horror and dismay. Standing before 
the dressing-glass was a middle-aged lady in yellow curl-papers, busily 
engaged in brushing what ladies call their "back hair." However the 
unconscious middle-aged lady came into that room, it was quite clear that 
she contemplated remaining there for the night ; for she had brought a 
rushlight and shade with her, which, with praiseworthy precaution 
against fire, she had stationed in a basin on the floor, where it was glim- 
mering away like a gigantic lighthouse, in a particularly small piece of 
water. 

" Bless my soul," thought Mr. Pickwick, " how very dreadful !" 

" Hem !" said the lady; and in went Mr. Pickwick's head with auto- 
maton-like rapidity. 

" I never met with anything so awful as this." — thought poor Mr. 
Pickwick, the cold perspiration starting in drops upon his night-cap. 
" Never. This is fearful.'' 

It was quite impossible to resist the urgent desire to see what was 
going forward. So out went Mr. Pickwick's head again. The prospect 
was worse than before. The middle-aged lady had finished arranging her 
hair, and carefully enveloped it in a muslin night-cap with a small plaited 
border, and was gazing pensively on the fire. 

" This matter is growing alarming " — reasoned Mr. Pickwick with 
himself. " I can't allow things to go on in this way. By the self-possession 
of that lady, it's clear to me that I must have come into the wrong room. 
If I call out, she'll alarm the house, but if I remain here, the consequence 
will be still more frightful!" 

He shrank behind the curtains, and called out very loudly : — 

" Ha-hum." 

That the lady started at this unexpected sound was evident, by her 
falling up against the rush-light shade ; that she persuaded herself it must 



378 MR. PICKWICK IN THE WRONG ROOM. 

have been the effect of imagination was equally clear, for when Mr. Pick- 
wick, under the impression that she had fainted away, stone-dead from 
fright, ventured to peep out again, she was gazing pensively on the fire 
as before. 

" Most extraordinary female this," thought Mr. Pickwick, popping in 
again. " Ha-hum." 

" Gracious Heaven I" said the middle-aged lady, "what's that?" 

" It's — it's — only a gentleman, Ma'am," said Mr. Pickwick from behind 
the curtains. 

" A gentleman !" said the lady with a terrific scream. 

" It's all over," thought Mr. Pickwick* 

" A strange man," shrieked the lady. Another instant and the house 
would be alarmed. Her garments rustled as she rushed towards the door. 

"Ma'am" — said Mr. Pickwick, thrusting out his head, in the 
extremity of his desperation, " Ma'am." 

" Wretch," — said the lady, covering her eyes with her hands, " what 
do you want here ?" 

"Nothing, Ma'am — nothing whatever, Ma'am;" said Mr. Pickwick, 
earnestly. 

" Nothing !" said the lady, looking up. 

" Nothing, Ma'am, upon my honor," said Mr. Pickwick, nodding his 
head so energetically, that the tassel of his night-cap danced again. " I am 
almost ready to sink, Ma'am, because of the confusion of addressing a lady 
in my night-cap (here the lady hastily snatched off her's), but I can't get 
it off, Ma'am, (here Mr. Pickwick gave it a tremendous tug in proof of the 
statement). It is evident to me, Ma'am, now, that I have mistaken this 
bed-room for my own. I had not been here five minutes, Ma'am, when 
you suddenly entered it." 

" If this improbable story be really true, sir," — said the lady, sobbing 
violently, "you will leave it instantly." 

" I will, Ma'am, with the greatest pleasure," — replied Mr. Pickwick. 

" Instantly, sir," said the lady. 

" Certainly, Ma'am," interposed Mr. Pickwick, very quickly. " Cer- 
tainly, Ma'am. I — I — am very sorry, Ma'am," said Mr. Pickwick, making 
his appearance at the bottom of the bed, " to have been the innocent occa- 
sion of this alarm and emotion; deeply sorry, Ma'am." 

The lady pointed to the door. 

" I am exceedingly sorry, Ma'am," said Mr. Pickwick, bowing very low. 

" If you are, sir, you will at once leave the room," said the lady. 

" Immediately, Ma'am ; this instant, Ma'am," said Mr. Pickwick, 



THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE. 



379 



opening the door, and dropping both his shoes with a loud crash in so 
doing. 

" I trust, Ma'am," resumed Mr. Pickwick, gathering up his shoes, and 
turning round to bow again, " I trust, Ma'am, that my unblemished charac- 
ter, and the devoted respect I entertain for your sex, will plead as some 
slight excuse for this " — but before Mr. Pickwick could conclude the 
sentence, the lady had thrust him into the passage, and locked and bolted 
the door behind him. 



MERCY. 



W. SHAKSPEARE. 




^HE quality of mercy is not strained ; 
It droppeth, as the gentle rain from 

heaven 
Upon the place beneath : it is twice 

blessed ; 
It blesseth him that gives, and him 
that takes : 
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest ; it becomes 
The throned monarch better than his crown ; 
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power 
Th' attribute to awe and majesty, 
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ; 



But mercy is above this sceptred sway, — 

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, 

It is an attribute to God himself; 

And earthly power doth then show likest 

God's 
"When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, 
Though justice be thy plea, consider this — 
That in the course of justice, none of us 
Should see salvation : we do pray for mercy ; 
And that same prayer should teach us all to 

render 
The deeds of mercy. 



THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE. 



CAROLINE E. NORTON. 




&ORD was brought to the Danish king, 
(Hurry!) 
That the love of his heart lay suf- 
fering, 
And pined for the comfort his voice 
would bring ; 
(0 ! ride as though you were flying !) 
Better he loves each golden curl 
On the brow of that Scandinavian girl 
Than his rich crown-jewels of ruby and pearl ; 
And his Rose of the Isles is dying. 

Thirty nobles saddled with speed ; (Hurry ! ) 
Each one mounted a gallant steed 



Which he kept for battle and days of need ; 

(0 ! ride as though you were flying ! ) 
Spurs were struck in the foaming flank ; 
Worn-out chargers struggled and sank-. 
Bridles were slackened, and girtns were burst: 
But ride as they would, the king rode first ; 
For his Rose of the Isles lay dying. 

His nobles are beaten, one by one ; (Hurry !) 
They have fainted, and faltered, and home- 
ward gone ; 
nis little fair page now follows alone, 
For strength and for courage crying. 
The kins looked back at that faithful child ; 



380 



THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE. 



Wan was the face that answering smiled. 
They passed the draw-bridge with clattering 

din: 
Then he dropped ; and the king alone rode in 
Where his Rose of the Isles lay dying. 



None welcomed the king from that weary 

ride; 
For, dead in the light of the dawning day, 
The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay, 
Who had yearned for his voice while dying. 




The king blew a blast on his bugle horn ; 

(Silence !) 
No answer came, but faint and forlorn 
An echo returned on the cold gray morn, 

Like the breath of a spirit sighing. 
The castle portal stood grimly wide ; 



The panting steed with a drooping crest 

Stood weary. 
The king returned from her chamber of 

rest, 
The thick sobs choking in his breast; 
And, that dumb companion eyeing, 



BETSY AND I ARE OUT. 



381 



The tears gushed forth, which he strove 

check; 
He bowed his head on his charger's neck ; 



to 



" 0, steed, that every nerve didst strain, 
Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain, 
To the halls where my love lay dying !" 



THE NYMPH 1 8 REPLY TO THE SHEPHERD. 



SIR. WALTER RALEIGH. 



)F that the world and love were young, 

) And truth in every shepherd's tongue, 

l These pretty pleasures might me move 

To live with thee and be thy love. 

But time drives flocks from field to fold, 
When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold ; 
And Philomel becometh dumb, 
And all complain of cares to come. 

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields 
To wayward winter reckoning yields ; 
A honey tongue, a heart of gall, 
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. 



Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, 
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies 
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten, — 
In folly ripe, in reason rotten. 

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, 
Thy coral clasps and amber studs, — 
All these in me no means can move 
To come to thee, and be thy love. 

But could youth last, and love still breed, 
Had joys no date, nor age no need, 
Then those delights my mind might move 
To live with thee, and be thy love. 



BETSY AND I ARE OUT 



WILL. M. CARLETON. 




RAW up the papers, lawyer, and 
make 'em good and stout, 
For things at home are cross-ways, 
and Betsy and I are out, — 
We who have worked together so 
long as man and wife 
T* Must pull in single harness the rest 
of our nat'ral life. 



I 



"What is the matter," says you? I swan 

it's hard to tell ! 
Most of the years behind us we've passed by 

very well ; 
I have no other woman — she has no other 

man; 
Only we've lived together as long as ever we 

can. 



So I have talked with Betsy, and Betsy has 

talked with me ; 
And we've agreed together that we can never 

agree ; 
Not that we've catched each other in any 

terrible crime ; 
We've been a gatherin' this for years, a little 

at a time. 

There was a stock of temper we both had 

for a start ; 
Although we ne'er suspected 'twould take us 

two apart ; 
I had my various failings, bred in the flesh 

and bone, 
And Betsy, like all good women, had a 

temper of her own. 



382 



BETSY AND I ARE OUT. 



The first thing, I remember, whereon we 
disagreed, 

"Was somethin' concerning heaven — a differ- 
ence in our creed ; 

We arg'ed the thing at breakfast — we arg'ed 
the thing at tea — 

And the more we arg'ed the question, the 
more we couldn't agree. 

And the next that I remember was when we 

lost a cow ; 
She had kicked the bucket, for certain — the 

question was only — How ? 
I held my opinion, and Betsy another had ; 
And when we were done a talkin', we both 

of us was mad. 

And the next that I remember, it started in 

a joke ; 
But for full a week it lasted and neither of 

us spoke. 
And the next was when I fretted because 

she broke a bowl; 
And she said I was mean and stingy, and 

hadn't any soul. 

And so the thing kept workin', and all the 

self-same way ; 
Always somethin' to ar'ge and something 

sharp to say, — 
And down on us came the neighbors, a 

couple o' dozen strong, 
And lent their kindest sarvice to help the 

thing along. 

And there have been days together — and 

many a weary week — 
When both of us were cross and spunky, 

and both too proud to speak ; 
And I have been thinkin' and thinkin', the 

whole of the summer and fall, 
If I can't live kind with a woman, why, then 

I won't at all. 

And so I've talked with Betsy, and Betsy 

has talked with me ; 
And we have agreed together that we can 

never agree ; 
And what is hers shall be hers, and what is 

mine shall be mine ; 
And I'll put it in the agreement and take it 

to her to sign. 



Write on the paper, lawyer — the very first 

paragraph — 
Of all the farm and live stock, she shall have 

her half; 
For she has helped to earn it through many 

a weary day, 
And it's nothin' more than justice that 

Betsy has her pay, 

Give her the house and homestead ; a man 

can thrive and roam, 
But women are wretched critters, unless 

they have a home. 
And I have always determined, and never 

failed to say, 
That Betsy never should want a home, if I 

was taken away. 

There's a little hard money besides, that's 

drawin' tol'rable pay, 
A couple of hundred dollars laid by for a 

rainy day, — 
Safe in the hands of good men, and easy to 

get at ; 
Put in another clause there, and give her all 

of that. 

I see that you are smiling, sir, at my givin' 

her so much ; 
Yes, divorce is cheap, sir, but I take no stock 

in such ; 
True and fair I married her, when she was 

blythe and young, 
And Betsy was always good to me exceptin' 

with her tongue. 

When I was young as you, sir, and not so 

smart, perhaps, 
For me she mittened a lawyer, and several 

other chaps ; 
And all of 'em was flustered, and fairly taken 

down, 
And for a time I was counted the luckiest 

man in town. 

Once when I had a fever — I won't forget it 

soon — 
I was hot as a basted turkey and crazy as a 

loon — 
Never an hour went by me when she was 

out of sight ; 



BETSY DESTROYS THE PAPER. 



383 



She nursed me true and tender, and stuck to 
me day and night. 

And if ever a house was tidy, and ever a 

kitchen clean, 
Her house and kitchen was tidy as any I 



ever seen. 



And I don't complain of Betsy or any of her 

acts, 
Exceptin' when we've quarreled, and told 

each other facts. 

So draw up the paper, lawyer ; and I'll go 

home to-night, 
And read the agreement to her, and see if it's 

all right ; 
And then in the morning I'll sell to a tradin' 

man I know — 
And kiss the child that was left to us, and 

out in the world I'll go. 



And one thing put in the paper, that first to 
me didn't occur ; 

That when I am dead at last she will bring 
me back to her, 

And lay me under the maple we planted 
years ago, 

When she and I was happy, before we quar- 
relled so, 

And when she dies, I wish that she would 

be laid by me ; 
And lyin' together in silence, perhaps we'll 

then agree ; 
And if ever we meet in heaven, I wouldn't 

think it queer 
If we loved each other the better because 

we've quarrelled here. 



BETSY DESTBOYS TEE BABEB. 



f 



'VE brought back the paper, lawyer, 

and fetched the parson here, 
To see that things are regular, and 

settled up fair and clear ; 
For I've been talking with Caleb, and 

Caleb has with me, 
And the 'mount of it is we're minded 

to try once more to agree. 



So I came here on the business, — only a word 

to say 
(Caleb is staking pea-vines, and couldn't 

come to-day.) 
Just to tell you and parson how that we've 

changed our mind ; 
So I'll tear up the paper, lawyer, you see it 

wasn't signed. 

And now if parson is ready, I'll walk with 

him toward home ; 
I want to thank him for something, 'twas 

kind of him to come ; 
He's showed a Christian spirit, stood by us 

firm and true ; 
We mightn't have changed our mind, squire, 

if he'd been a lawyer too. 



There ! — how good the sun feels, and the 

grass, and blowin' trees, 
Something about them lawyers makes me 

feel fit to freeze ; 
I wasn't bound to state particular to that 

man, 
But it's right you should know, parson, 

about our change of plan. 

We'd been some days a waverin' a little, 

Caleb and me, 
And wished the hateful paper at the bottom 

of the sea ; 
But I guess 'twas the prayer last evening, 

and the few words you said, 
That thawed the ice between us, and brought 

things to a head. 

You see, when we came to division, there 

was things that wouldn't divide ; 
There was our twelve-year-old baby, she 

couldn't be satisfied 
To go with one or the other, but just kept 

whimperin' low, 
" I'll stay with papa and mamma, and where 

they go I'll go." 



384 



BETSY DESTROYS THE PAPER. 



Then there was grandsire's Bible — he died 

on our wedding day ; 
We couldn't halve the old Bible, and should 

it go or stay ? 
The sheets that was Caleb's mother's, her 

sampler on the wall, 
With the sweet old names worked in — Try- 

phena, and Eunice, and Paul. 

It began to be hard then, parson, but it grew 

harder still, 
Talkin' of Caleb established down at 

McHenry'sville ; 
Three dollars a week 'twould cost him ; no 

mendin' nor sort of care, 
And board at the Widow Meacham's, a 

woman that wears false hair. 

Still we went on a talkin' ; I agreed to knit 
some socks, 

And make a dozen striped shirts, and a pair 
of wa'mus frocks ; 

And he was to cut a doorway from the kit- 
chen to the shed : 

" Save you climbing steps much in frosty 
weather," he said. 

He brought me the pen at last ; I felt a 

sinkin' and he 
Looked as he did with the agur, in the spring 

of sixty -three. 
'Twas then you dropped in, parson, 'twasn't 

much that was said, , 

" Little children, love one another," but the 

thing was killed stone dead. 

I should like to make confession ; not that 

I'm going to say 
The fault was all on my side, that never was 

my way, 
But it may be true that women — tho' how 

'tis I can't see — 
Are a trifle more aggravatin' than men know 

how to be. 

Then, parson, the neighbors' meddlin' — it 

wasn't pourin, oil ; 
And the church a laborin' with us, 'twas 

worse than wasted toil ; 



And I've thought and so has Caleb, though 

maybe we are wrong, 
If they'd kept to their own business, we 

should have got along. 

There was Deacon Amos Purdy, a good man. 

as we know, 
But hadn't a gift of laborin' except with the 

scythe and hoe ; 
Then a load came over in peach time from. 

the Wilbur neighborhood, 
" Season of prayer," they called it ; didn't do 

an atom of good. 

Then there are pints of doctrine, and views 

of a future state 
I'm willing to stop discussin' ; we can both 

afford to wait; 
'Twon't bring the millenium sooner, disputin' 

about when it's due, 
Although I feel an assurance that's mine's 

the Scriptural view. 

But the blessedest truths of the Bible, I've 

learned to think don't lie 
In the texts we hunt with a candle to prove 

our doctrines by, 
But them that come to us in sorrow, and 

when we're on our knees ; 
So if Caleb won't argue on free-will, I'll 

leave alone the decrees. 

But there's the request he made ; you know 

it, parson, about 
Bein' laid under the maples that his own. 

hand set out, 
And me to be laid beside him when my turn 

comes to go ; 
As if — as if — don't mind me ; but 'twas that 

unstrung me so. 

And now, that some scales, as we think, have 

fallen from our eyes, 
And things brought so to a crisis have made 

us both more wise, 
Why Caleb says and so I say, till the Lord 

parts him and me, 
We'll love each other better, and try our 

best to agree. 



CHILDREN OF THE DESERT. 



385 



ANNIE LA UEIE. 



JPWgAXWELTON braes are bonnie 
^ Where early fa's the dew, 




: "* s *gC£ ] And it's there that Annie Laurie 
Gie'd me her promise true, — 
Gie'd me her promise true, 
"Which ne'er forgot will be ; 
And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
I'd lay me doune and dee. 

Her brow is like the snaw- drift; 
Her throat is like the swan ; 
Her face it is the fairest 
That e'er the sun shone on, — 



That e'er the sun shone on; 
And dark blue is her e'e ; 
And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
I'd lay me doune and dee. 

Like dew on the gowan lying 
Is the fa' o' her fairy feet ; 
And like the winds in summer 
Her voice is low and sweet, — 
Her voice is low and sweet ; 
And she's a' the world to me ; 
And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
I'd lay me doune and dee. 



sighing, 



CHILDREN OF THE DESERT. 



ARTHUR PENRHYN STANLEY. 




SHE relation of the Desert to its modern inhabitants is still illustra- 
te 

tive of its ancient history. The general name by which the 
Hebrews called " the wilderness," including always that of Sinai, 
was "the pasture." Bare as the surface of the Desert is, yet the 
thin clothing of vegetation, which is seldom entirely withdrawn, 
especially the aromatic shrubs on the high hillsides, furnish suffi- 
cient sustenance for the herds of the six thousand Bedouins who constitute 
the present population of the peninsula. 

"Along the mountain ledges green, 
The scatter'd sheep at will may glean 
The Desert's spicy stores." 



So were they seen following the daughters or the shepherd-slaves of 
Jethro. So may they be seen climbing the rocks, or gathered round the 
pools and springs of the valleys, under the charge of the black-veiled 
Bedouin women of the present day. And in the Tiyaha, Towara, or Alouin 
tribes, with their chiefs and followers, their dress, and manners, and habi- 
tations, we probably see the likeness of the Midianites, the Amalekites, 
and the Israelites themselves in this their earliest stage of existence. The 
long strait lines of black tents which cluster round the Desert springs, 

25 



386 



CHILDREN OF THE DESER'i. 



present to us ; on a small scale, the image of the vast encampment gathered 
round the one sacred tent which, with its coverings of dyed skins, stood 
conspicuous in the midst, and which recalled the period of their nomadic 
life long after their settlement in Palestine. The deserted villages, marked by 
rude enclosures of stone, are doubtless such as those to which the Hebrew 
wanderers gave the name of " Hazeroth," and which afterwards furnished 




MIRAGE IN THE DESEET. 



the type of the primitive sanctuary at Shiloh. The rude burial-grounds, 
with the many nameless head-stones, far away from human habitation, are 
such as the host of Israel must have left behind them at the different stages 
of their progress — at Massah, at Sinai, at Kibroth-hattaavah, " the graves 
of desire." The salutations of the chiefs, in their bright scarlet robes, the 
one " going out to meet the other," the " obeisance," the "kiss" on each 
side of the head, the silent entrance into the tent for consultations, are all 
graphically described in the encounter between Moses and Jethro. The 



ROBERT OF LINCOLN. 



387 



constitution of the tribes, with the subordinate degrees of sheiks, recom- 
mended by Jethro to Moses, is the very same which still exists amongst 
those who are possibly his lineal descendants — the gentle race of the 
Towara. 



NEW YEARS EVE. 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 



gSfe: 



fINGr out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 
The flying cloud, the frosty light ; 
"7 The year is dying in the night ; 
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 

Ring out the old, ring in the new ; 

Ring, happy bells, across the snow ; 
The year is going, le't him go ; 
Ring out the false, ring in the true. 



Ring out the grief that saps the mind, 
For those that here we see no more 
Ring out the feud of rich and poor, 

Ring in redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly dying cause, 
And ancient forms of party strife ; 



Ring in the nobler modes of life, 
With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Ring out false pride in place and blood, 
The civic slander and the spite ; 
Ring in the love of truth and right, 

Ring in the common love of good. 



Ring out old shapes of foul 

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ; 

Ring out the thousand wars of old, 
Ring in the thousand years of peace. 

Ring in the valiant man and free, 
The larger heart, the kindlier hand ; 
Ring out the darkness of the land ; 

Ring in the Christ that is to be. 



ROBERT OF LINCOLN. 



W. C. BRYANT. 




MERRILY swinging on brier and 
weed, 
Near to the nest of his little dame, 
Over the mountain-side or mead, 
Robert of Lincoln is telling his 

?name : 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink ; 
Snug and safe is that nest of ours, 
Hidden among the summer flowers, 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed, 
Wearing a bright black wedding coat ; 



White are his shoulders and white his crest, 
Hear him call in his merry note ; 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink ; 
Look what a nice new coat is mine, 
Sure there was never a bird so fine. 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, 

Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, 
Passing at home a patient life, 

Broods in the grass while her husband singa, 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink ; 



388 



A PORTRAIT. 



Brood, kind creature ; you need not fear 


Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well. 


Thieves and robbers, while I am here. 


Gathering seed for the hungry brood. 


Chee, chee, chee. 


Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 




Spink, spank, spink ; 


Modest and shy as a nun is she, 


This new life is likely to be 


One weak chirp is her only note, 


Hard for a gay young fellow like me. 


Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, 


Chee, chee, chee. 


Pouring boasts from his little throat ; 




Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 


Robert of Lincoln at length is made 


Spink, spank, spink ; 


Sober with work and silent with care ; 


Never was I afraid of man ; 


Off is his holiday garment laid, 


Catch me, cowardly knaves if you can. 


Half- forgotten that merry air, 


Chee, chee, chee. 


Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 




Spink, spank, spink ; 


-Six white eggs on a "bed of hay, 


Nobody knows but my mate and I 
Where our nest and our nestlings lie. 
Chee, chee, chee. 


Flecked with purple, a pretty sight ! 


There as the mother sits all day, 




Robert is singing with all his might : 


Summer wanes ; the children are grown ; 


Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 


Fun and frolic no more he knows ; 


Spink, spank, spink ; 


Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone ; 


Nice good wife, that never goes out, 


Off he flies, and we sing as he goes : 


Keeping house while I frolic about. 


Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 


Chee, chee, chee. 


Spink, spank, spink ; 




When you can pipe that merry old strain, 


Soon as the little ones chip the shell 


Robert of Lincoln, come back again. 


Six wide mouths are open for food ; 


Chee, chee, chee. 



A PORTRAIT. 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 




'One name is Elizabeth."— Ben Jonsos. 



WILL paint her as I see her, 
Ten times have the lilies blown 
Since she looked upon the sun. 

And her face is lily-clear, 

Lily-shaped, and dropped in duty 
To the law of its own beauty. 



Oval cheeks encolored faintly, 
Which a trail of golden hair 
Keeps from fading off to air ; 

And a forehead fair and saintly, 
Which two blue eyes undershine, 
Like meek prayers before a shrine. 



Face and figure of a child, — 

Though too calm, you think, and tender, 
For the childhood you would lend her. 

Yet child-simple, undefiled, 

Frank, obedient, — waiting still 
On the turnings of your will. 

Moving light, as all your things, 
As young birds, or early wheat, 
. When the wind blows over it. 

Only, free from flutterings 

Of loud mirth that scorneth measure, — 
Taking love for her chief pleasure. 



THE LAUNCHING OF THE SHIP. 



389 



Choosing pleasures, for the rest, 
Which come softly, — just as she, 
When she nestles at your knee. 

Quiet talk she liketh best, 
In a bower of gentle looks, — 
Watering flowers, or reading books. 

And her voice, it murmurs lowly, 
As a silver stream may run, 
Which yet feels, you feel, the sun. 

And her smile, it seems half holy, 
As if drawn from thoughts more far 
Than our common jestings are. 

And if any poet knew her, 
He would sing of her with falls 
Used in lovely madrigals. 

And if any painter drew her, 
He would paint her unaware 
With a halo round the hair. 



And if reader read the poem, 

He would whisper, " You have done a 
Consecrated little Una." 

And a dreamer (did you show him 
That same picture) would exclaim, 
" 'Tis my angel with a name !" 

And a stranger, when he sees her 
In the street even, smileth stilly, 
Just as you would at a lily. 

And all voices that address her 
Soften, sleeken every word, 
As if speaking to a bird. 

And all fancies yearn to cover 

The hard earth whereon she passes, 
With the thymy -scented grasses. 

And all hearts do pray, " God love her !" 
Ay, and always, in good sooth, 
We may all be sure He doth. 



THE LA UNCHING OF THE SHIP. 



HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 



- ^j^ , — 

fjfiC&IAj is finished, and at length 
y™l^| Has come the bridal day 
^g^f Of beauty and of strength. 

To-day the vessel shall be launched ! 
•£ With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched ! 
J And o'er the bay, 

Slowly, in all his splendors dight, 
The great sun rises to behold the sight. 

The ocean old, 

Centuries old, 

Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled, 

Paces restless to and fro, 

Up and down the sands of gold. 

His beating heart is not at rest, 

And far and wide 

With ceaseless flow 

His beard of snow 

Heaves with the heaving of his breast. 



He waits impatient for his bride. 

There she stands, 

With her foot upon the sands, 

Decked with flags and streamers gay, 

In honor of her marriage-day, 

Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending, 

Round her like a veil descending, 

Ready to be 

The bride of the gray old sea. 

Then the Master, 

With a gesture of command, 

Waved his hand ; 

And at the word, 

Loud and sudden there was heard, 

All around them and below, 

The sound of hammers, blow on blow, 

Knocking away the shores and spurs. 

And see ! she stirs ! 



390 



TACITUS. 



She starts, — she moves, — she seems to feel 

The thrill of life along her keel, 

And, spurning with her foot the ground, 

With one exulting, joyous bound, 

She leaps into the ocean's arms. 

And lo ! from the assembled crowd 

There rose a shout, prolonged and loud, 

That to the ocean seemed to say, 

"Take her, 0, bridegroom, old and gray ; 

Take her to thy protecting arms, 

With all her youth and all her charms." 

How beautiful she is ! how fair 

She lies within those arms, that press 

Her form with many a soft caress 

Of tenderness and watchful care ! 

Sail forth into the sea, 0, ship ! 

Through wind and wave, right onward steer, 

The moistened eye, the trembling lip, 

Are not the signs of doubt or fear. 

Sail forth into the sea of life, 
Oh gentle, loving, trusting wife, 
And safe from all adversity, 
Upon the bosom of that sea 
Thy comings and thy goings be ! 
For gentleness, and love, and trust, 



Prevail o'er angry wave and gust ; 
And in the wreck of noble lives 
Something immortal still survives ! 

Thou, too, sail on, ship of State ! 
Sail on, Union, strong and great ! 
Humanity, with all its fears, 
With all its hopes of future years, 
Is hanging breathless on thy fate ! 
We know what Master laid thy keel 
What workman wrought thy ribs of steel. 
Who made each mast, and sail and rope, 
What anvils rang, what hammers beat, 
In what a forge, in what a heat, 
Were shaped the anchors of thy hope. 

Fear not each sudden sound and shock ; 

'Tis of the wave, and not the rock; 

'Tis but the napping of the sail, 

And not a rent made by the gale. 

In spite of rock and tempest roar, 

In spite of false lights on the shore, 

Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea. 

Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee : 

Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, 

Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, 

Are all with thee — are all with thee. 



TACITUS. 



T. BABINGTON MACAULAY. 



\N the delineation of character, Tacitus is unrivalled among historians, 
and has very few superiors among dramatists and novelists. By 
the delineation of character we do not mean the practice of drawing 
up epigrammatic catalogues of good and bad qualities, and append 
i ing them to the names of eminent men. No writer indeed has done 
J this more skillfully than Tacitus ; but this is not his peculiar glory. 
All the persons who occupy a large space in his works have an individual- 
ity of character which seems to pervade all their words and actions. We 
know them as if we had lived with them. Claudius, Nero, Otho, both the 
Agrippinas, are masterpieces. But Tiberius is a still higher miracle of 
art. The historian undertook to make us intimately acquainted with a 
man singularly dark and inscrutable — whose real disposition long remain- 



CATO ON IMMORTALITY. 



391 



ed swathed up in intricate folds of factitious virtues, and over whose 
actions the hypocrisy of his youth and the seclusion of his old age threw a 
singular mystery. He was to exhibit the specious qualities of the tyrant 
in a light which might render them transparent, and enable us at once to 
perceive the covering and the vices which it concealed. He was to trace 
the gradations by which the first magistrate of a republic, a senator mingling 
freely in debate, a noble associating with his brother nobles, was trans- 
formed into an Asiatic sultan ; he was to exhibit a character distinguished 
by courage, self-command, and profound policy, yet defiled by all 

" th' extravagancy 
And crazy ribaldry of fancy." 

He was to mark the gradual effect of advancing age and approaching death 
on this strange compound of strength and weakness ; to exhibit the old 
sovereign of the world sinking into a dotage which, though it rendered his 
appetites eccentric and his temper savage, never impaired the powers of 
his stern and penetrating mind, conscious of failing strength, raging with 
capricious sensuality, yet to the last the keenest of observers, the most 
artful of dissemblers, and the most terrible of masters. The task was one 
of extreme difficulty. The execution is almost perfect. 



CATO ON IMMORTALITY. 



JOSEPH ADDISON. 



\T must be so. — Plato, thou reasonest well ! 
Else whence this pleasing hope, this 

fond desire, 
This longing after immortality ? 
Or whence this secret dread, and in- 
ward horror, 
Of falling into naught ? Why shrinks 
the soul 
Back on herself, and startles at destruction ? 
'Tis the divinity that stirs within us ; 
"Tis heaven itself, that points out a hereafter, 
And intimates eternity to man 

Eternity ! — thou pleasing, dreadful thought ! 
Through what variety of untried being, 
Through what new scenes and changes must 
we pass ! 



The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before 

me; 
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon 

it. 
Here will I hold. If there's a Power above 

us, — 
And that there is, all Nature cries aloud 
Through all her works, He must delight in 

virtue ; 
And that which He delights in must be 

happy, 
But when ? or where ? This world was made 

for Caesar. 
I'm weary of conjectures, — this must end 

them. 

[Laying his hand on his sword.] 



392 



THE SANDS 0' DEE. 



Thus am I doubly armed. My death and life, 
My bane and antidote, are both before me, 
This in a moment brings me to my end ; 
But this informs me I shall never die. 
The soul, secure in her existence, smiles 
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. 



The stars shall fade away, the sun himself 
Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in 

years ; 
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, 
Unhurt amid the war of elements, 
The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. 



0KB 




THE SANDS 0' DEE. 



CHARLES KINGSLEY. 




MARY, go and call the cattle home, 
And call the cattle home, 
And call the cattle home, 
Across the sands o'Dee ! 

The western wind was wild and dark 
wi' foam, 
And all alone went she. 



The creeping tide came up along the sand, 
And o'er and o'er the sand, 
And round and round the sand, 
As far as eye could see ; 

The blinding mist came down and hid the 
land, 
And never home came she. 



" is it weed, or fish, or floating hair r 

A tress o' golden hair, 

0' drowned maiden's hair, 

Above the nets at sea ? 
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair„ 

Among the stakes on Dee. 

They rowed her in across the rolling foam, 

The cruel, crawling foam, 

The cruel, hungry foam, 

To her grave beside the sea : 
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle 
home 

Across the sands o* Dee. 



NELL. 



393 



NELL. 




ROBERT BUCHANAN. 



^OUTIE a kind woman, Nan ! ay, kind 
and true ! 
God will be good to faithful folk 

like you ! 
You knew my Ned ! 
A better, kinder lad never drew breath. 
We loved, each other true, and we were wed 
In church, like some who took him to his 

death ; 
A lad as gentle as a lamb, but lost 
His senses when he took a drop too much. 

Drink did it all — drink made him mad when 

crossed — 
He was a poor man, and they're hard on 

such. 
Nan ! that night ! that night ! 
When I was sitting in this very chair, 
Watching and waiting in the candle-light, 
And heard his foot come creaking up the 

stair, 
And turned, and saw him standing yonder, 

white 
And wild, with staring eyes and rumpled 

hair ! 
And when I caught his arm and called, in 

fright, 
He pushed me, swore, and to the door he 



To lock and bar it fast. 

Then down he drops just like a lump of lead, 

Holding his brow, shaking, and growing 
whiter, 

And— Nan ! — just then the light seemed grow- 
ing brighter, 

And I could see the hands that held his head, 

All red ! all bloody red ! 

What could I do but scream ? He groaned 
to hear, 

Jumped to his feet, and gripped me by the 
wrist ; 

" Be still, or I shall kill thee, Nell !" he hissed. 

And I was still, for fear. 

" They're after me — I've knifed a man !" he 
said. 



"Be still! — the drink — drink did it! — he is 
dead !" 

Then we grew still, dead still. I couldn't 

weep ; 
All I could do was cling to Ned and hark, 
And Ned was cold, cold, cold, as if asleep, 
But breathing hard and deep. 
The candle flickered out — the room grew 

dark — 
And — Nan! — although my heart was true 

and tried — 
When all grew cold and dim, 
I shuddered — not for fear of them outside, 
But just afraid to be alone with him. 
"Ned! Ned!" I whispered — and he moaned 

and shook, 
But did not heed or look ! 
"Ned! Ned! speak, lad! tell me it is not 

true !" 
At that he raised his head and looked so 

wild ; 
Then, with a stare that froze my blood, he 

threw 
His arms around me, crying like a child, 
And held me close — and not a word was 

spoken, 
While I clung tighter to his heart, and 

pressed him, 
And did not fear him, though my heart was 

broken, 
But kissed his poor stained hands, and cried, 

and blessed him. 

Then, Nan, the dreadful daylight, coming 

cold 
With sound o' falling rain- 
When I could see his face, and it looked old, 
Like the pinched face of one that dies in 

pain ; 
Well, though we heard folk stirring in the 

sun, 
We never thought to hide away or run, 
Until we heard those voices in the street, 
That hurrying of feet, 



394 



THE DIVINITY OF POETRY. 



And Ned leaped up, and knew that they had 
come. 

" Run, Ned !" I cried, but he was deaf and 
dumb !" 

" Hide, Ned !" I screamed, and held him ; 
" hide thee, man !" 

He stared with bloodshot eyes, and heark- 
ened, Nan ! 

And all the rest is like a dream — the sound 

Of knocking at the door — 

A rush of men — a struggle on the ground — 

A mist — a tramp — a roar ; 

For when I got my senses back again, 

The room was empty — and my head went 
round ! 

God help him ! God will help him ! Ay, no 

fear ! 
It was the drink, not Ned — he meant no 

wrong ; 
So kind ! so good ! — and I am useless here, 
Now he is lost that loved me true and long. 
. . . That night before he died 
I didn't cry — my heart was hard and dried ; 
But when the clocks went " one," I took my 

shawl 
To cover up my face, and stole away, 
And walked along the silent streets, where 

all 
Looked cold and still and gray, 
And on I went, and stood in Leicester Square, 
But just as "three" was sounded close at hand 
I started and turned east, before I knew, 
Then down Saint Martin's Lane, along the 

Strand, 



And through the toll-gate on to Waterloo. 

Some men and lads went by, 

And turning round, I gazed, and watched 

'em go, 
Then felt that they were going to see him 

die, 
And drew my shawl more tight, and followed 

slow. 
More people passed me, a country cart with 

hay 
Stopped close beside me, and two or three 
Talked about it I I moaned and crept away ! 

Next came a hollow sound I knew full well, 
For something gripped me round the heart ! 

— and then 
There came the solemn tolling of a bell ! 

God ! God ! how could I sit close by, 
And neither scream nor cry ? 

As if I had been stone, all hard and cold, 

1 listened, listened, listened, still and dumb, 
While the folk murmured, and the death-bell 

tolled, 
And the day brightened, and his time had 

come . . 
. . . Till — Nan ! — all else was silent, but 

the knell 
Of the slow bell ! 

And I could only wait, and wait, and wait, 
And what I waited for I couldn't tell — 
At last there came a groaning deep and 

great — 
Saint Paul's struck " eight " — 
I screamed, and seemed to turn to fire, and 

fell ! 



THE DIVINITY OF POETRY. 



PEBCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 




IIJOETBY is the record of the best and happiest moments of the 
happiest and best minds. We are aware of evanescent visitations 
of thought and feeling, sometimes associated with place or person, 
sometimes regarding our own mind alone, and always arising 
unforeseen and departing unbidden, but elevating and delightful 
beyond all expression ; so that, even in the desire and the regret 



ANNIE AND WILLIE'S PRAYER. 



395 



they leave, there cannot but be pleasure, participating as it does in the 
nature of its object. It is, as it were, the interpenetration of a diviner 
nature through our own ; but its footsteps are like those of a wind over 
the sea, which the morning calm erases, and whose traces remain only, as 
on the wrinkled sand which paves it. These and corresponding conditions 
of being are experienced principally by those of the most delicate sensibility 
and the most enlarged imagination ; and the state of mind produced by them 
is at war with every base desire. The enthusiasm of virtue, love, patriot- 
ism, and friendship, is essentially linked with such emotions; and whilst 
they last, self appears as what it is, an atom to a universe. Poets are 
not only subject to these experiences as spirits of the most refined 
organization, but they can colour all that they combine with the evanes- 
cent hues of this ethereal world ; a word, a trait in the representation of 
a scene or passion, will touch the enchanted chord, and reanimate, in 
those who have ever experienced those emotions, the sleeping, the cold, the 
huried image of the past. Poetry thus makes immortal all that is best 
and most beautiful in the world; it arrests the vanishing apparitions 
which haunt the interlunations of life, and veiling them, or in language 
or in form, sends them forth among mankind, bearing sweet news of 
kindred joy to those with whom their sisters abide — abide, because there 
is no portal of expression from the caverns of the spirit which they 
inhabit into the universe of things. Poetry redeems from decay the 
visitations pf the divinity in man. 



ANNIE AND WILLIE'S PEA YER. 




SOPHIA P. SNOW. 



fWAS the eve before Christmas, " Good- 
night" had been said ; 
And Annie and Willie had crept 

into bed ; 
There were tears on their pillows, 
and tears in their eyes, 
And each little bosom was heaving with sighs, 
For to-night their stern father's command 

had been given 
That they should retire precisely at seven — 
Instead of at eight — for they troubled him 

more 
With questions unheard of than ever before : 



He had told them he thought this delusion 
a sin, 

No such creature as " Santa Claus " ever had 
been, 

And he hoped, after this, he should never- 
more hear 

How he scrambled down chimneys with pre- 
sents each year. 

And this was the reason that two little heads 

So restlessly tossed on their soft, downy beds. 

Eight, nine, and the clock on the steeple 
tolled ten, 



396 



ANNIE AND WILLIE'S PRAYER. 



Not a word had been spoken by either till 

then, 
When Willie's sad face from the blanket did 

peep, 
As he whispered, " Dear Annie, is 'ou fast 

aseep?" 
" Why no, brother Willie," a sweet voice 

replies, 
" I've long tried in vain, but I can't shut my 

eyes, 
For somehow it makes me so sorry because 
Dear papa has said there is no ' Santa Claus.' 
Now we know there is, and it can't be denied, 
For he came every year before mamma died ; 
But, then, I've been thinking that she used 

to pray, 
And God would hear everything mamma 

would say, 
And maybe she asked Him to send Santa 

Claus here 
With the sack full of presents he brought 

every year." 

" Well, why tan't we pray dest as Mamma 

did den, 
And ask Dod to send him with presents 

aden ?" 




" I've been thinking so, too," and without a 

word more 
Four little bare feet bounded out on the 

floor, 
And four little knees the soft carpet pressed, 
And two tiny hands were clasped close to 

each breast. 
" Now, Willie, you know we must firmly 

believe 
That the presents we ask for we're sure to 

receive ; 



You must wait just as still till I say the- 

' Amen,' 
And by that you will know that your turn 

has come then." 

" Dear Jesus, look down on my brother and 

me, 
And grant us the favor we are asking of 

Thee. 
I want a wax dolly, a tea-set and ring, 
And an ebony work-box, that shuts with a. 

spring. 
Bless papa, dear Jesus, and cause him to see,. 
That Santa Claus loves us as much as does he : 
Don't let him get fretful and angry again 
At dear brother Willie and Annie. Amen." 
" Please, Desus, et Santa Taus turn down to- 
night, 
And bing us some presents before it is ight ; 
I want he should div' me a nice 'ittle sed, 
With bright shinin' unners, and all painted. 

red ; 
A box full of tandy, a book and a toy, 
Amen, and then Desus, I'll be a dood boy." 
Their prayers being ended, they raised up 

their heads 
And with hearts light and cheerful, again. 

sought their beds. 
They were soon lost in slumber, both peace- 
ful and deep, 
And with fairies in Dreamland were roaming 
in sleep. 

Eight, nine, and the little French clock had 

struck ten, 
Ere the father had thought of his children 

again. 
He seems now to hear Annie's half suppressed 

sighs, 
And to see the big tears stand in Willie's 

blue eyes. 
" I was harsh with my darlings," he mentally 

said, 
" And should not have sent them so early to 

bed; 
But then I was troubled ; my feelings found 

vent, 
For bank stock to-day has gone down ten 

per cent. 
But of course they've forgotten their troubles- 

ere this, 



ANNIE AND WILLIE'S PRAYER. 



397 



And that I denied them their thrice-asked-for 

kiss ; 
•But just to make sure, I'll steal up to their 

door, 
For I never spoke harsh to my darlings 

before." 
So saying, he softly ascended the stairs, 
And arrived at the door to hear both of their 

prayers ; 
His Annie's " Bless Papa " drew forth the 

big tears, 
And "Willie's grave promise fell sweet on his 

ears 
"Strange — strange — I'd forgotten," said he, 

with a sigh, 
* How I longed when a child to have Christ- 
mas draw nigh. " 
"I'll atone for my harshness," he inwardly 

said; 
" By answering their prayers ere I sleep in 

my bed." 
Then turned to the stairs and softly went 

down, 
Threw off velvet slippers and silk dressing- 
gown, 
Donned hat, coat and boots, and was out in 

the street — 
A millionaire facing the cold driving sleet ! 
Nor stopped he until he had bought every- 
thing, 
From the box full of candy to the tiny gold 

ring. 
Indeed he kept adding so much to his store, 
That the various presents outnumbered a 

- score ; 
Then homeward he turned, when his holiday 

load, 
With Aunt Mary's help in the nursery was 

stowed. 
Miss Dolly was seated beneath a pine tree, 
By the side of a table spread out for her tea ; 
A work-box well filled in the centre was 

laid, 
And on it the ring for which Annie had 

prayed : 
A soldier in uniform stood by a sled, 
" With bright shining runners and all painted 

red." 
There were balls, dogs and horses, books 

pleasing to see, 



And birds of all colors were perched in the 

tree ; 
While Santa Claus, laughing, stood up in the 

top, 
As if getting ready more presents to drop. 

And as the fond father the picture surveyed, 
He thought for his trouble he had amply 

been paid ; 
And he said to himself, as he brushed off a 

tear, 
" I'm happier to-night than I've been for a 

year; 
I've enjoyed more true pleasure than ever 

before, 
What care I if bank stock falls ten per cent. 

more ! 
Hereafter, I'll make it a rule, I believe, 
To have Santa Claus visit us each Christmas 

eve." 
So thinking, he gently extinguished the light, 
And, tripping down stairs, retired for the 

night. 
As soon as the beams of the bright morning 

sun 
Put the darkness to flight, and the stars one 

by one, 
Four little blue eyes out of sleep opened 

wide, 
And at the same moment the presents espied ; 
Then out of their beds they sprang with a 

bound, 
And the very gifts prayed for were all of 

them found. 
They laughed and they cried in their inno- 
cent glee, 
And shouted for papa to come quick and 

see 
What presents old Santa Claus brought in the 

night, 
(Just the things that they wanted), and left 

before light : 
" And now," added Annie, in voice soft and 

low, 
" You'll believe there's a ' Santa Claus,' papa, 

I know ;" 
While dear little Willie climbed up on his 

knee, 
Determined no secret between them should 

be, 



398 



BLIND MEN AND THE ELEPHANT. 



And told in soft whispers how Annie had 


And knew just what presents my children 


said 


would please. 


That their dear blessed mamma, so long ago 


(Well, well let him think so, the dear little 


dead, 


elf, 


Used to kneel down and pray by the side of 


'Twould be cruel to tell him I did it my- 


her chair, 


self!" 


And that God up in heaven had answered 


Blind father ! who caused your stern heart to 


her prayer. 


relent, 


" Den we dot up and prayed dust as well as 


And the hasty words spoken, so soon to 


we tould, 


repent ? 


And Dod answered our prayers ; now wasn't 


'Twas the Being who bade you steal softly 


He dood ?" 


up stairs, 


'• I should say that He was, if He sent you 


And make you His agent to answer their 


all these, 


prayers. 




BLIND MEN AND THE ELEPHANT. 



J. G. SAXE. 



'T was six men of Indostan 
To learning much inclined, 

Who went to see the Elephant 
(Though all of them were blind,) 

That each by observation 
Might satisfy his mind. 

The First approached the Elephant, 
And, happening to fall 



Against his broad and sturdy side, 

At once began to bawl : 
" God bless me ! but the Elephant 

Is very like a wall!" 

The Second, feeling of the tusk, 
Cried : " Ho ! what have we here 

So very round and smooth and sharp ? 
To me 'tis mighty clear 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY LEAVES DOTHEBOYS' HALL. 



399 



This wonder of an Elephant 


The Sixth no sooner had begun 


Is very like a spear !" 


About the beast to grope, 




Than, seizing on the swinging tail 


The Third approached the animal, 


That fell within his scope, 


And, happening to take 


" I see," quoth he, " the Elephant 


The squirming trunk within his hands, 


Is very like a rope !" 


Thus boldly up and spake : 




" I see," quoth he, " the Elephant 
Is very like a snake !" 


And so these men of Indostan 


Disputed loud and long, 


The Fourth reached out his eager hand, 


Each in his own opinion 


And felt about the knee : 


Exceeding stiff and strong, 


" What most this wondrous beast is like 


Though each was partly in the right,. 


Is mighty plain," quoth he ; 


And all were in the wrong ! 


'"Tis clear enough the Elephant 




Is very like a tree ! " 


MORAL. 


The Fifth, who chanced to touch the ear, 


So, oft in theologic wars 


Said : " E'en the blindest man 


The disputants, I ween, 


Can tell what this resembles most ; 


Rail on in utter ignorance 


Deny the fact who can, 


Of what each other mean, 


This marvel of an Elephant 


And prate about an Elephant 


Is very like a fan !" 


Not one of them has seen ! 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY LEAVES DOTHEBOYS 1 HALL. 



CHARLES DICKENS. 




|[HE news that the fugitive had been caught and brought back ran 
like wildfire through the hungry community, and expectation 
was on tiptoe all the morning. On tiptoe it remained until the 
afternoon, when Squeers, having refreshed himself with his dinner 
and an extra libation or so, made his appearance (accompanied 
by his amiable partner), with a fearful instrument of flagellation, 
strong, supple, wax-ended, and new. 
" Is every boy here ?" 

Every boy was there, but every boy was afraid to speak ; so Squeers 
glared along the lines to assure himself. 

" Each boy keep his place. Nickleby ! you go to your desk, sir !" 
There was a curious expression in the usher's face ; but he took his 
seat, without opening his lips in reply. Squeers left the room, and shortly 
afterwards returned, dragging Smike by the collar — or rather by that 
fragment of his jacket which was nearest the place where his collar ought 
to have been. 



400 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY LEAVES DOTHEBOYS' HALL. 

" Now, what have you got to say for yourself? (Stand a little out of 
the way, Mrs. Squeers, my dear ; I've hardly got room enough.) " 

" Spare me, sir!" 

" Oh, that's all you've got to say, is it ? Yes, I'll flog you within an 
inch of your life, and spare you that." 

One cruel blow had fallen on him, when Nicholas Nickleby cried, 
"Stop!" 

" Who cried stop ?" 

"I did. This must not go on." 

" Must not go on !" 

"No! Must not ! Shall not ! I will prevent it ! You have dis- 
regarded all my quiet interference in this miserable lad's behalf ; you have 
returned no answer to the letter in which I begged forgiveness for him, 
and offered to be responsible that he would remain quietly here. Don't 
blame me for this public interference. You have brought it upon your- 
self, not I." 

" Sit down, beggar !" 

" "Wretch, touch him again at your peril ! I will not stand by, and 
see it done. My blood is up, and I have the strength of ten such men as 
you. By Heaven ! I will not spare you, if you drive me on ! I have a 
series of personal insults to avenge, and my indignation is aggravated by 
the cruelties practiced in this foul den. Have a care ; for if you raise the 
devil in me, the consequences will fall heavily upon your head !" 

Squeers, in a violent outbreak, spat at him, and struck him a blow 
across the face. Nicholas instantly sprang upon him, wrested his weapon 
from his hand, and, pinning him by the throat, beat the ruffian till he 
roared for mercy. 

He flung him away with all the force he could muster, and the vio- 
lence of his fall precipitated Mrs. Squeers over an adjacent form; Squeers, 
striking his head against the same form in his descent, lay at his full length 
on the ground, stunned and motionless. 

Having brought affairs to this happy termination, and having ascer- 
tained, to his satisfaction, that Squeers was only stunned, and not dead 
(upon which point he had some unpleasant doubts at first), Nicholas packed 
up a few clothes in a small valise, and, finding that nobody offered to 
oppose his progress, marched boldly out by the front door, and struck into 
the road. Then such a cheer arose as the walls of Dotheboys' Hall had 
never echoed before, and would never respond to again. When the sound 
had died away, the school was empty ; and of the crowd of boys not one 
remained. 



CLERICAL WIT. 



401 



A KISS AT THE DOOR. 




E were standing in the doorway, 

My little wife and I ; 
The golden sun upon her hair 

Fell down so silently ; 
A small white hand upon my arm, — 

What could I ask for more 
Than the kindly glance of loving eyes, 

As she kissed me at the door ? 



I know she loves with all her heart 

The one who stands "beside, 
And the years have been so joyous, 

Since first I called her bride ; 
We've had so much of happiness 

Since we met in years before, 
But the happiest time of all was when 

She kissed me at the door. 

Who cares for wealth of land or gold, 
For fame or matchless power ? 

It does not give the happiness 
Of just one little hour 



With one who loves me as her life — 
She says she loves me more — 

And I thought she did this morning, 
When she kissed me at the door. 

At times it seems that all the world, 

With all its wealth of gold, 
Is very small and poor indeed, 

Compared with what I hold ; 
And when the clouds hang grim and dark, 

I only think the more 
Of one who waits the coming step 

To kiss me at the door. 

If she lives till age shall scatter 

Its frosts upon her head, 
I know she'll love me just the same 

As the morning we were wed ; 
But if the angels call her, 

And she goes to heaven before, 
I shall know her when I meet her, — 

For she'll kiss me at the door. 



CLERICAL WIT 




PARSON, who a missionary had 

been, 
And hardships and privations oft 

had seen, 
While wandering far on lone and 

desert strands, 
Awsary traveler in benighted lands, 
Would often picture to his little flock 
The terrors of the gibbet and the block ; 
How martyrs suffer'd in the ancient times, 
And what men suffer now in other climes ; 
And though his words were eloquent and 



His hearers oft indulged themselves in sleep. 
He marked with sorrow each unconscious nod, 
Within th* portals of the house of God, 
And once this new expedient thought he'd 

take 
In his discourse, to keep the rogues awake — 
26 



Said he, " While traveling m a distant state, 
I witness'd scenes which I will here relate : 
'Twas in a deep, uncultivated wild, 
Where noontide glory scarcely ever smiled ; 
Where wolves in hours of midnight darkness 

howl'd — 
Where bears frequented, and where panthers 

prowl' d ; 
And, on my word, mosquitoes there were 

found, 
Many of which, I think, would weigh a 

pound ! 
More fierce and ravenous than the hungry 

shark — 
They oft were known to climb the trees and 

bark ! " 
The audience seem'd taken by surprise — 
All started up and rubbed their wondering 

eyes ; 



402 



THE MURDERED TRAVELER. 



At such a tale they all were much amazed, 
Each drooping lid was in an instant raised, 
And we must say, in keeping heads erect, 
It had its destined and desired effect. 

But tales like this credulity appall'd ; 

Next day, the deacons on the pastor call'd, 

And begg'd to know how he could ever tell 

The foolish falsehoods from his lips that fell. 

M Why, sir," said one, " think what a mons- 
trous weight ! 

Were they as large as you were pleased to 
state ? 

You said they'd weigh a pound ! It can't be 
true ; 



We'll not believe it, though 'tis told by you ! " 
" Ah, but it is ! " the parson quick replied ; 
" In what I stated you may well confide ; 
Many, I said, sir — and the story's good — 
Indeed I think that many of them would ! " 
The deacon saw at once that he was caught, 
Yet deem'd himself relieved, on second 

thought. 
" But then the barking — think of that, good 

man ; 
Such monstrous lies! Explain it if you can !" 
" Why, that, my friend, I can explain with 



They climbed the bark, sir, when they climbed 
the trees!" 



THE POETS REWARD. 



JOHN G. WHITTIER. 



" p^HANKS untraced to lips unknown 
| Shall greet me like the odors blown 
From unseen meadows newly mown, 
Or lilies floating in some pond, 

Wood-fringed, the wayside gaze beyond ; 




The traveler owns the grateful sense 
Of sweetness near, he knows not 

whence, 
And, pausing, takes with forehead bare 
The benediction of the air. 



THE MURDERED TRAVELER. 



WILLIAM C. BRYANT. 




HEN spring, to woods and wastes 
around, 
Brought bloom and joy again ; 
The murdered traveler's bones were 
found, 
Far down a narrow glen. 



The fragrant birch, above him, hun£ 
Her tassels in the sky ; 
And many a vernal blossom sprung, 
And nodded careless by. 

The red bird warbled, as he wrought 
His hanging nest o'erhead ; 



And fearless, near the fatal spot. 
Her young the partridge led. 

But there was weeping far away, 

And gentle eyes, for him, 
With watching many an anxious day. 

Were sorrowful and dim. 

They little knew, who loved him so. 

The fearful death he met, 
When shouting o'er the desert snow 

Unarmed and hard beset; 



THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. 



403 



Nor how, when round the frosty pole, 
The northern dawn was red, 

The mountain-wolf and wild-cat stole 
To banquet on the dead ; 



But long they looked, and feared, and wept, 

Within his distant home ; 
And dreamed, and started as they slept, 

For joy that he was come. 




Nor how, when strangers found his bones, 

They dressed the hasty bier, 
And marked his grave with nameless stones, 

Unmoistened by a tear. 



Long, long they looked — but never spied 

His welcome step again. 
Nor knew the fearful death he died 

Far down that narrow glen. 



THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. 



OOD morning, Doctor; how do you do? I haint quite so well as I 
have been ; but I think I'm some better than I was. I don't think 
that last medicine you gin me did me much good. I had a terrible 



404 THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. 



time with the ear-ache last night ; my wife got up and drapt a few draps 
of walnut sap into it, and that relieved it some; but I didn't get a wink 
of sleep till nearly daylight. For nearly a week, Doctor, I've had the worst 
kind of a narvous headache; it has been so bad sometimes that I thought 
my head would bust open. Oh, dear! I sometimes think that I'm the 
most afflictedest human that ever lived. 

Since this cold weather sot in, that troublesome cough, that I have 
had every winter for the last fifteen year, has began to pester me agin. 
( Coughs) Doctor, do you think you can give me anything that will relieve 
this desprit pain I have in my side ? 

Then I have a crick at times, in the back of my neck, so that I can't 
turn my head without turning the hull of my body. (Coughs.) 

Oh, dear ! what shall I do ! I have consulted almost every doctor in 
the country, but they don't any of them seem to understand my case. I 
have tried everything that I could think of; but I can't find anything that 
does me the leastest good. (Coughs) 

Oh this cough — it will be the death of me yet ! You know I had my ' 
right hip put out last fall at .the rising of Deacon Jones' saw mill; it's 
getting to be very troublesome just before we have a change of weather. 
Then I've got the sciatica in my right knee, and sometimes I r m so crippled 
up that I can hardly crawl round in any fashion. 

What do you think that old white mare of ours did while I was out 
plowing last week ? Why, the weacked old critter,, she kept a backing and 
hacking, on till she back'd me right up agin the colter, and knock'd a 
piece of skin off my shin nearly so big. (Coughs.) 

But I had a worse misfortune than that the other day, Doctor. You 
see it was washing-day — and my wife wanted me to go out and bring in a 
little stove-wood — you know we lost our help lately, and my wife has to 
wash and tend to everything about the house herself. 

I knew it wouldn't be safe for me to go out — as it was a raining at 
the time — but I thought I'd risk it anyhow. So I went out, pick'd up a few 
chunks of stove-wood, and was a coming up the steps into the house, when 
my feet slipp'd from under me, and I fell down as sudden as if I'd been shot 
Some of the wood lit upon my face, broke down the bridge of my nose, 
cut my upper lip, and knock'd out three of my front teeth. I suffered 
dreadfully on account of it, as you may suppose, and my face aint well 
enough yet to make me fit to be seen, specially by the women folks. 
(Coughs.) Oh, dear! but that ain't all, Doctor, I've got fifteen corns 
on my toes — and I'm afeard I'm a going to have the "yallar jandars." 
(Coughs.) 



FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. 



405 



THE VAUDOIS TEACHER. 



JOHN G. WHITTIEE. 



, ^4^ — 

u i^^S-, lady fair, these silks of mine 
HOIk Are beautiful and rare, 
j^HgNf, The richest web of the Indian loom, 
Which beauty's queen might wear. 
•f And these pearls are pure and mild 
J to behold, 

And with radiant light they vie ; 
I have brought them with me a weary way, 
Will my gentle lady buy ? " 

And the lady smiled on the worn old man, 

Through the dark and clustering curls, 
Which veiled her brow as she bent to view 

His silks and glittering pearls ; 
And she placed their price in the old man's 
hand, 

And lightly turned away ; 
But she paused at the wanderer's earnest 
call, 

" My gentle lady, stay ! " 

" Oh, lady fair, I have yet a gem 

Which a purer lustre flings 
Than the diamond flash of the jeweled 
crown 

On the lofty brow of kings ; 
A wonderful pearl of exceeding price, 

Whose virtue shall not decay ; 
Whose light shall be as a spell to thee, 

And a blessing on thy way ! " 

The lady glanced at the mirroring steel 
Where her form of grace was seen, 



Where her eyes shone clear and her dark locks 
waved 

Their clasping pearls between. 
" Bring forth thy pearl of exceeding worth, 

Thou traveler gray and old ; 
And name the price of thy precious gem, 

And my pages shall count thy gold." 

The cloud went off from the pilgrim's brow, 

As a small and meagre book, 
Unchased with gold or gem of cost, 

From his folding robe he took. 
" Here, lady fair, is the pearl of price; 

May it prove as such to thee ! 
Nay, keep thy gold ; I ask it not ; 

For the Word of God is free." 

The hoary traveler went his way ; 

But the gift he left behind 
Hath had its pure and perfect work 

On that high-born maiden's mind ; 
And she hath turned from the pride of sin 

To the lowliness of truth, 
And given her human heart to God, 

In its beautiful hour of youth. 

And she hath left the gray old halls 

Where an evil faith had power ; 
The courtly knights of her father's train, 

And the maidens of her bower ; 
And she hath gone to the Vaudois vales, 

By lordly feet untrod, 
Where the poor and needy of earth are rich 

In the perfect love of God. 



FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. 



THOMAS HOOD. 




EN BATTLE was a soldier bold, 
And used to war's alarms ; 
But a cannon-ball took off his legs, 
So he laid down his arms. 



Now as they bore him off the field, 
Said he, " Let others shoot ; 

For here I have my second leg, 
And the Forty-second Foot." 



406 



JOHN MAYNARD. 



The army-surgeons made him limbs ; 


And now you cannot wear your shoes 


Said he, " They're only pegs ; 


Upon your feats of arms !" 


But there's as wooden members quite, 




As represent my legs." 


" false and fickle Nellie Gray ! 




I know why you refuse ; 


Now Ben he loved a pretty maid, — 


Though I've no feet, some other man 


Her name was Nelly Gray ; 


Is standing in my shoes. 


So he went to pay her his devours, 




When he devoured his pay. 


" I wish I ne'er had seen your face ; 




But, now, a long farewell ! 


But when he called on Nelly Gray ; 


For you will be my death ; — alas ! 


She made him quite a scoff ; 


You will not be my Nell !" 


And when she saw his wooden legs, 




Began to take them off. 


Now when he went from Nelly Gray 




His heart so heavy got, 


" Nelly Gray ! Nelly Gray ! 


And life was such a burden grown, 


Is this your love so warm ? 


It made him take a knot. 


The love that loves a scarlet coat 




Should be more uniform." 


So round his melancholy neck 




A rope he did intwine, 


Said she, " I loved a soldier once, 


And, for his second time in life, 


For he was blithe and brave ; 


Enlisted in the line. 


But I will never have a man 




With both legs in the grave. 


One end he tied around a beam, 




And then removed his pegs ; 


" Before you had those timber toes 


And, as his legs were off, — of course 


Your love I did allow ; 


He soon was off his legs. 


But then, you know, you stand upon 




Another footing now." 


And there he hung till he was dead 




As any nail in town ; 


" Nelly Gray ! Nelly Gray ! 


For, though distress had cut him up, 


For all your jeering speeches, 


It could not cut him down. 


At duty's call I left my legs 




In Badajos's breaches." 


A dozen men sat on his corpse, 




To find out why he died, — 


" Why, then," said she, "you've lost the feet 


And they buried Ben in four cross-roads, 


Of legs in war's alarms, 


With a stake in his inside. 



JOHN MA YNARD. 




H. ALGER, JR. 



I WAS on Lake Erie's broad expanse, 

One bright midsummer day, 
The gallant steamer Ocean Queen 

Swept proudly on her way. 
Bright faces clustered on the deck, 

Or leaning o'er the side, 
Watched carelessly the feathery foam, 

That flecked the rippling tide. 



Ah, who beneath that cloudless sky, 

That smiling bends serene, 
Could dream that danger, awful, vast, 

Impended o'er the scene — 
Could dream that ere an hour had sped, 

That frame of sturdy oak 
Would sink beneath the lake's blue waves, 

Blackened with fire and smoke ? 



JOHN MAYNARD. 



407 



A seaman sought the captain's side, 

A moment whispered low ; 
The captain's swarthy face grew pale, 

He hurried down below 
Alas, too late ! Though quick and sharp 

And clear his orders came, 
No human effort could avail 

To quench the insidious flame- 

The bad news quickly reached the deck, 

It sped from lip to lip, 
And ghastly faces everywhere 

Looked from the doomed ship. 
" Is there no hope — no chance of life ?" 

A hundred lips implore : 
" But one,'' the captain made reply, 

" To run the ship on shore." 



No terror pales the helmsman's cheek, 
Or clouds his dauntless eye, 

As in a sailor's measured tone 
His voice responds, " Ay, Ay !" 

Three hundred souls, — the steamer's freight- 
Crowd forward wild with fear, 

While at the stern the dreadful flames 
Above the deck appear. 

John Maynard watched the nearing flames, 

But still with steady hand 
He grasped the wheel and steadfastly 

He steered the ship to land. 
"John Maynard," with an anxious voice, 

The captain cries once more, 
" Stand by the wheel five minutes yet, 

And we will reach the shore.'' 




A sailor, whose heroic soul 

That hour should yet reveal — 
By name John Maynard, eastern born, 

Stood calmly at the wheel. 
" Head her southeast!" the captain shouts, 

Above the smothered roar 
" Head her southeast without delay ! 

Make for the nearest shore!'' 



Through flames and smoke that dauntless 
heart 

Responded firmly, still 
Unawed, though face to face with death, 

" With God's good help I will!" 

The flames approach with giant strides, 
They scorch his hands and brow ; 



408 



WASHINGTON'S ADDRESS TO HIS TROOPS. 



One arm disabled seeks his side, 

Ah, he is conquered now ! 
But no, his teeth are firmly set, 

He crushes down the pain, — 
His knee upon the staunchion pressed, 

He guides the ship again. 



One moment yet ! one moment yet ! 

Brave heart thy task is o'er ! 
The pebbles grate beneath the keel, 

The steamer touches shore. 



Three hundred grateful voices rise, 

In praise to God that He 
Hath saved them from the fearful fire, 

And from the engulfing sea. 

But where is he, that helmsman bold ? 

The captain saw him reel — 
His nerveless hands released their task, 

He sunk beside the wheel. 
The waves received his lifeless corpse, 

Blackened with smoke and fire. 
God rest him ! Hero never had 

A nobler funeral pyre ! 



WASHINGTON'S ADDRESS TO HIS TROOPS, 



BEFORE THE BATTLE OF LONG ISLAND, 1776. 



JP|HE time is now near at hand, which must probably determine whether 
g|il§ Americans are to be freemen or slaves; whether they are to have 
"*W~ any property they can cajl their own ; whether their houses and 
t farms are to be pillaged and destroyed, and themselves consigned 
J to a state of wretchedness, from which no human efforts will deliver 
them. The fate of unborn millions will now depend, under God, on the 
courage and conduct of this army. Our cruel and unrelenting enemy 
leaves us only the choice of a brave resistance, or the most abject sub- 
mission. We have, therefore, to resolve to conquer or to die. 

Our own, our country's honour, calls upon us for a vigorous and 
manly exertion ; and if we now shamefully fail, we shall become infamous 
to the whole world. Let us, then, rely on the goodness of our cause, and 
the aid of the Supreme Being, in whose hands victory is, to animate and 
encourage us to great and noble actions. The eyes of all our countrymen 
are now upon us, and we shall have their blessings and praises, if happily 
we are the instruments of saving them from the tyranny meditated against 
them. Let us therefore animate and encourage each other, and show the 
whole world, that a freeman contending for liberty on his own ground, is 
superior to any slavish mercenary on earth. 

Liberty, property, life, and honour are all at stake ; upon your cou- 
rage and conduct rest the hopes of our bleeding and insulted country ; our 
wives, children, and parents expect safety from us only; and they have 
every reason to believe that Heaven will crown with success so just a 
cause. 



A SNOW-STORM. 



409 



The enemy will endeavor to intimidate by show and appearance ; 
but remember they have been repulsed on various occasions by a few brave 
Americans. Their cause is bad — their men are conscious of it ; and, if 
opposed with firmness and coolness on their first onset, with our advantage 
of works and knowledge of the ground, the victory is most assuredly ours. 
Every good soldier will be silent and attentive — wait for orders — and re- 
serve his fire until he is sure of doing execution. 




A SNOW-STORM. 



CHARLES G. EASTMAN. 



t efo* T I. 

IS a fearful night in the winter time, 
As cold as it ever can be ;' 
The roar of the blast is heard, like 
the chime 
Of the waves on an angry sea ; 
The moon is full, but her silver light 
The storm dashes out with its wings 
to-night ; 
And over the sky from south to north 




Not a star is seen, as the wind comes forth 
In the strength of a mighty glee. 



II. 



-all day, 



All day had the snow come down- 
As it never came down before ; 

And over the hills, at sunset, lay 
Some two or three feet, or more ; 

The fence was lost, and the wall of stone, 



410 



A SNOW-STORM. 



The windows blocked, and the well-curbs 

gone ; 
The haystack had grown to a mountain lift, 
And the wood-pile looked like a monster drift, 
As it lay by the farmer's door. 

The night sets in on a world of snow, 
While the air grows sharp and chill, 

And the warning roar of a fearful blow 
Is heard on the distant hill ; 

And the Norther ! See — on the mountain peak, 

In his breath how the old trees writhe and 
shriek, 

He shouts on the plain, Ho, ho ! Ho, ho ! 

He drives from his nostrils the blinding snow, 
And growls with a savage will. 



His nose is pressed on his quivering feet ; 
Pray, what does the dog do there ? 

A farmer came from the village plain, 

But he lost the traveled way ; 
And for hours he trod, with might and main, 

A path for his horse and sleigh ; 
But colder still the eold wind blew, 
And deeper still the deep drifts grew, 
And his mare, a beautiful Morgan brown, 
At last in her struggles floundered down, 

Where a log in a hollow lay. 

In vain, with a neigh and a frenzied snort, 

She plunged in the drifting snow, 
While her master urged, till his breath grew 
short, 




■ill 



in. 

Such a night as this to be found abroad, 
In the drifts and the freezing air, 

Sits a shivering dog in the field by the road, 
With the snow in his shaggy hair ! 

He shuts his eyes to the wind, and growls ; 

He lifts his head, and moans and howls ; 

Then crouching low from the cutting sleet, 



With a word and a gentle blow ; 
But the snow was deep, and the tugs were 

tight, 
His hands were numb, and had lost their 

might ; 
So he wallowed back to his half-filled sleigh, 
And strove to shelter himself till day, 
With his coat and the buffalo. 



WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD? 



411 



IV. 

He has given the last faint jerk cf the rein 

To rouse up his dying steed, 
And the poor dog howls to the blast in vain, 

For help in his master's need ; 
For a while he strives, with a wistful cry, 
To catch a glance from his drowsy eye, 
And wags his tail if the rude winds flap 
The skirt of the buffalo over his lap, 

And whines when he takes no heed. 



The wind goes down, and the storm is o'er 
'Tis the hour of midnight past ; 

The old trees writhe and bend no more 
In the whirl of the rushing blast ; 



The silent moon, with her peaceful light, 
Looks down on the hills, with snow all white; 
And the giant shadow of Camel's Hump, 
The blasted pine and the ghostly stump, 
Afar on the plain are cast. 

But cold and dead, by the hidden log, 
Are they who came from the town : 
The man in his sleigh, and his faithful dog, 

And his beautiful Morgan brown — 
In the wide snow-desert, far and grand, 
With his cap on his head, and the reins in 

his hand, 
The dog with his nose on his master's feet, 
And the mare half seen through the crusted 
sleet, 
Where she lay when she floundered down. 



WHY SHOULD THE' SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD 



WILLIAM KNOX. 




President Lincoln's Favorite Poem. 



>H ! why should the spirit of mortal be 
proud ? 

Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast- 
flying cloud, 

A flash of the lightning, a break of 
the wave, 

Man passeth from life to his rest in 
the grave. 

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, 
Be scattered around and together be laid ; 
And the young and the old, the low and the 

high 
Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie. 

The infant a mother attended and loved ; 
The mother that infant's affection who proved ; 
The husband that mother and infant who 

blessed, — 
Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest. 

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in 

whose eye, 
Shone beauty and pleasure, — her triumphs 

are by ; 



And the memory of those who loved her and 

praised 
Are alike from the minds of the living erased. 

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath 

borne ; 
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath 

worn; 
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave, 
Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave. 

The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap ; 
The herdsman who climbed with his goats up 

the steep ; 
The beggar who wandered in search of his 

bread, 
Have faded away like the grass that we tread. 

The saint who enjoyed the communion of 

heaven ; 
The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven ; 
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, 
Have quietly mingled their bones in the 

dust. 



412 



CAUGHT IN THE MAELSTROM. 



So the multitude goes, like the flowers or the 


They grieved, but no wail from their slum- 


weed 


bers will come ; 


That withers away to let others succeed ; 


They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness 


So the multitude comes, even those we be- 


is dumb. 


hold, 




To repeat every tale that has often been 


They died, aye ! they died ; and we things 


told. 


that are now, 




Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow, 


For we are the same our fathers have been ; 


Who make in their dwelling a transient 


We see the same sights our fathers have 


abode, 


seen ; 


Meet the things that they met on their pil- 


We drink the same stream, and view the 


grimage road. 


same sun, 




And run the same course our fathers have 


Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and 


run. 


pain, 




We mingle together in sunshine and rain ; 


The thoughts we are thinking our fathers 


And the smiles and the tears, the song and 


would think ; 


the dirge, 


From the death we are shrinking our fathers 


Still follow each other, like surge upon surge. 


would shrink ; 




To the life we are clinging they also would 


'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a 


cling ; 


breath, 


But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the 


From the blossom of health to the paleness 


wing. 


of death, 




From the gilded saloon to the bier and the 


They loved, but the story we cannot unfold ; 


shroud, — 


They scorned, but the heart of the haughty 


Oh ! why should the spirit of mortal be 


is cold ; 


proud ? 



CA TIGHT IN THE MAELSTROM, 



CHARLES A. WILEY. 



^N the Arctic ocean near the coast of Norway is situated the famous 
Maelstrom or whirlpool. Many are the goodly ships that have been 
caught in its circling power, and plunged into the depths below. On 
a fine spring morning, near the shore opposite, are gathered a com- 
J pany of peasants. The winter and the long night have passed away ; 
and, in accordance with their ancient custom, they are holding a greeting 
to the return of the sunlight, and the verdure of spring. Under a green 
shade are spread, in abundance, all the luxuries their pleasant homes could 
afford. In the grove at one side are heard the strains of music, and the 
light step of the dance. 

At the shore lies a beautiful boat, and a party near are preparing for 
a ride. Soon all things are in readiness, and, amid the cheers of their 



CAUGHT IN THE MAELSTROM. 413 

companions on shore, they push gayly away. The day is beautiful, and 
they row on, and on. Weary, at length, they drop their oars to rest; but 
they perceive their boat to be still moving. Somewhat surprised, — soon 
it occurs to them that they are under the influence of the whirlpool. 

Moving slowly and without an effort — presently faster, at length the 
boat glides along with a movement far more delightful than with oars. 
Their friends from the shore perceive the boat moving, and see no working 
of the oars ; it flashes upon their minds that they are evidently within the 
circles of the maelstrom. When the boat comes near they call to them, 
" Beware of the whirlpool ! " But they laugh at fear, — they are too happy 
to think of returning: " When we see there is danger then we will return." 
Oh, that some good angel would come with warning unto them, " Unless ye 
now turn back ye cannot be saved." Like as the voice of God comes to the 
soul of the impenitent, "Unless ye mend your ways ye cannot be saved." 

The boat is now going at a fearful rate ; but, deceived by the moving 
waters, they are unconscious of its rapidity. They hear the hollow 
rumbling at the whirlpools centre. The voices from the shore are no 
longer audible, but every effort is being used to warn them of their danger. 
They now, for the first time, become conscious of their situation, and head 
the boat towards shore. But, like a leaf in the autumn gale, she quivers 
under the power of the whirlpool. Fear drives them to frenzy ! Two of 
the strongest seize the oars, and ply them with all their strength, and the 
boat moves towards the shore. With joy they cherish hope ! and some, for 
the first time in all their lives, now give thanks to God, — that they are saved. 
But suddenly, crash, goes an oar ! and such a shriek goes up from that 
ill-fated band, as can only be heard when a spirit lost, drops into perdition ! 

The boat whirls again into its death-marked channel, and skips on 
with the speed of the wind. The roar at the centre grinds on their ears, 
like the grating of prison doors on the ears of the doomed. Clearer, and 
more deafening is that dreadful roar, as nearer and still nearer the 
vessel approaches the centre; then whirling for a moment on that awful 
brink, she plunges with her freight of human souls into that dreadful 
yawning hollow, where their bodies shall lie in their watery graves till the 
sea gives up its dead ! 

And so, every year, ay, every month, thousands, passing along in 
the boat of life, enter almost unaware the fatal circles of the wine-cup. 
And, notwithstanding the earnest voices of anxious friends, " Beware of 
the gutter ! of the grave ! of hell!" they continue their course until the 
"force of habit" overpowers them; and, cursing and shrieking, they whirl 
for a time on the crater of the maelstrom, and are plunged below. 



414 



THE FIRST PARTY. 



WIND AND RAIN 



RICHARD H. STODDARD. 



;ATTLE the window, Winds ! 
|§|||§ Rain, drip on the panes ! 
8§Mn There are tears and sighs in our 
hearts and eyes, 
And a weary weight on our brains. 



The gray sea heaves and heaves, 
On the dreary flats of sand ; 



Arid the blasted limb of the churchyard yew, 
It shakes like a ghostly hand ! 

The dead are engulfed beneath it, 

Sunk in the grassy waves ; 
But we have more dead in our hearts to-day 

Than the Earth in all her graves! 



THE FIRST PARTY. 



JOSEPHINE POLLARD. 




ISS Annabel McCarty 
Was invited to a party, 
" Your company from four to ten,' 
the invitation said ; 
And the maiden was delighted 
To think she was invited 
To sit up till the hour when the bi£ 
folks went to bed. 



The crazy little midget 
Ran and told the news to Bridget, 
Who clapped her hands, and danced a jig, to 
Annabel's delight, 
And said, with accents hearty, 
" 'Twill be the swatest party 
If ye're there yerself, me darlint ! I wish it 
was to-night!" 

The great display of frilling 
Was positively killing ; 
And, oh, the little booties ! and the lovely 
sash so wide ! 
And the gloves so very cunning ! 
She was altogether " stunning," 
And the whole McCarty family regarded her 
with pride. 

They gave minute directions, 
With copious interjections 
Of " sit up straight !" and " don't do this or 
that — 'twould be absurd !" 



But, what with their caressing, 
And the agony of dressing, 
Miss Annabel McCarty didn't hear a single 
word. 

There was music, there was dancing, 
And the sight was most entrancing, 
As if fairyland and floral band were holding 
jubilee ; 
There was laughing, there was pouting ; 
There was singiDg, there was shouting ; 
And old and young together made a carnival 
of glee. 

Miss Annabel McCarty 
Was the youngest at the party, 
And every one remarked that she was beau- 
tifully dressed ; 
Like a doll she sat demurely 
On the sofa, thinking surely 
It would never do for her to run and frolic 
with the rest. 

The noise kept growing louder ; 
The naughty boys would crowd her ; 
" I think you're very rude indeed !" the little 
lady said ; 
And then, without a warning, 
Her home instructions scorning, 
She screamed : " 1 want my supper — and I 
want to go to bed!" 



THE SEA-SHORE AND THE MOUNTAINS. 



415 



Now big folks who are older, 
Need not laugh at her, nor scold her, 
ifor doubtless, if the truth were known, we've 
often felt inclined 



To leave the ball or party, 
As did Annabel McCarty, 
Bnt we hadn't half the courage and 
couldn't speak our mind ! 




THE SEASHORE AND THE MOUNTAINS. 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 



HAVE lived by the sea-shore and by the mountains. No, I am not 
going to say which is best. The one where your place is, is the best 
for you. But this difference is : you can domesticate mountains, 
but the sea is ferce naturce. You may have a hut, or know the owner 
of one, on the mountain-side ; you see a light half-way up its ascent 
in the evening, and you know there is a home, and you might share 
it, You have noted certain trees, perhaps ; you know the particular zone 
where the hemlocks look so black in October, when the maples and beeches 
have faded. All its reliefs and intaglios have electro typed themselves in 
the medallions that hang round the walls of your memory's chamber. The 
sea remembers nothing. It is feline. It licks your feet, — its huge flanks 
purr very pleasantly for you ; but it will crack your bones and eat you, 
for all that, and wipe the crimsoned foam from its jaws as if nothing had 
happened. The mountains give their lost children berries and water ; the 
sea mocks their thirst and lets them die. The mountains have a grand, 
stupid, lovable tranquillity ; the sea has a fascinating, treacherous intelli- 
gence. The mountains lie about like huge ruminants, their broad backs 
awful to look upon, but safe to handle. The sea smooths its silver scales 



416 



THE BAREFOOT BOY. 



until you cannot see their joints, — but their shining is that of a snake's 
belly, after all. In deeper suggestiveness I find as great a difference. The 
mountains dwarf mankind and foreshorten the procession of its long gene- 
rations. The sea drowns out humanity and time ; it has no sympathy with 
either ; for it belongs to eternity, and of that it sings its monotonous song 
for ever and ever. 

Yet I should love to have a little box by the sea-shore. I should 
love to gaze out on the wild feline element from a front window of my own, 
just as I should love to look on a caged panther, and see it stretch its 
shining length, and then curl over and lap its smooth sides, and by-and-by 
begin to lash itself into rage, and show its white teeth, and spring at its 
bars, and howl the cry of its mad, but, to me, harmless fury. 



THE BAREFOOT BOY. 



JOHN a. WHITTIEE. 




LESSINGS on thee, little man, 
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan ! 
With thy turned up pantaloons, 
And thy merry whistled tunes ; 
With thy red lip, redder still 

Kissed by strawberries on the hill ; 

With the sunshine on thy face, 

Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace! 

From my heart I give thee joy ; 

I was once a barefoot boy. 

Prince thou art — the grown-up man, 

Only is republican. 

Let the million-dollar ed ride! 

Barefoot, trudging at his side, 

Thou hast more than he can buy, 

In the reach of ear and eye : 

Outward sunshine, inward joy, 

Blessings on the barefoot boy. 

! for boyhood's painless play, 
Sleep that wakes in laughing day, 
Health that mocks the doctor's rules, 
Knowledge never learned of schools : 
Of the wild bee's morning chase, 
Of the wild flower's time and place, 
Flight of fowl, and habitude 
jf the tenants of the wood : 



How the tortoise bears his shell, 
How the woodchuck digs his cell, 
And the ground-mole sinks his well ; 
How the robin feeds her young, 
How the oriole's nest is hung ; 
Where the whitest lilies blow, 
Where the freshest berries grow, 
Where the ground-nut trails its vine, 
Where the wood-grape's clusters shine ; 
Of the black wasp's cunning way, 
Mason of his walls of clay, 
And the architectural plans 
Of gray hornet artisans ! 
For, eschewing books and tasks, 
Nature answers all he asks ; 
Hand in hand with her he walks, 
Part and parcel of her joy, 
Blessings on the barefoot boy. 

for boyhood's time of June, 
Crowding years in one brief moon, 
When all things I heard or saw, 
Me, their master, waited for! 

1 was rich in flowers and trees, 
Humming-birds and honey-bees ; 
For my sport the squirrel played, 
Plied the snouted mole his spade , 




Blessings on thee, little man.' 



LINES ON A SKELETON. 



417 



V or my taste the blackberry cone 
Purpled over hedge and stone ; 
Laughed the brook for my delight, 
Through the day, and through the night 
Whispering at the garden wall, 
Talked with me from fall to fall ; 
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, 
Mine the walnut slopes beyond, 
Mine, on bending orchard trees, 
Apples of Hesperides ! 
Still, as my horizon grew, 
Larger grew my riches too, 
All the world I saw or knew 
Seemed a complex Chinese toy, 
Fashioned for a barefoot boy ! 

0, for festal dainties spread, 
Like my bowl of milk and bread, 
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, 
On the door-stone, gray and rude ! 
O'er me like a regal tent, 
Cloudy ribbed, the sunset bent, 
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, 
Looped in many a wind-swung fold ; 
"While for music came the play 
Of the pied frogs' orchestra ; 



And, to light the noisy choir, 
Lit the fly his lamp of fire. 
I was monarch ; pomp and joy 
Waited on the barefoot boy ! 



Cheerily, then, my little man ! 
Live and laugh as boyhood can ; 
Though the flinty slopes be hard, 
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, 
Every morn shall lead thee through 
Fresh baptisms of the dew ; 
Every evening from thy feet 
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat ; 
All too soon these feet must hide 
In the prison cells of pride, 
Lose the freedom of the sod, 
Like a colt's for work be shod, 
Made to tread the mills of toil, 
Up and down in ceaseless moil, 
Happy if their track be found 
Never on forbidden ground ; 
Happy if they sink not in 
Quick and treacherous sands of sin. 
Ah ! that thou couldst know thy joy, 
Ere it passes, barefoot boy J 



LINES ON A SKELETON. 




JEHOLD this ruin ! 'tis a skull, 
Once of ethereal spirit full ! 
This narrow cell was life's retreat, 
This space was thought's mysterious 

seat. 
What beauteous pictures filled this 
epot — 

What dreams of pleasure, long forgot ! 
Nor grief, nor joy, nor hope, nor fear, 
Has left one trace of record there. 

Beneath this mouldering canopy 
Once shone the bright and busy eye : 
Yet start not at that dismal void ; 
If social love that eye employed, 
If with no lawless fire it gleamed, 
But through the dew of kindness beamed, 
That eye shall be forever bright 
When stars and sun have lost their light. 
27 



Here, in this silent cavern, hung 
The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue; 
If falsehood's honey it disdained, 
And, when it could not praise, was 

chained : 
If bold in virtue's cause it spoke, 
Yet gentle concord never broke, 
That tuneful tongue shall plead for thee 
When death unveils eternity. 



Say, did these fingers delve the mine, 
Or with its envied rubies shine ? 
To hew the rock or wear the gem, 
Can nothing now avail to them : 
But if the page of truth they sought, 
And comfort to the mourner brought, 
These hands a richer meed shall claim 
Than all that waits on wealth or fame! 



418 



YAWCOB STRAUSS. 



Avails it whether bare or shod 
Those feet the path of duty trod ? 
If from the bower of joy they 
To soothe affliction's humble bed 



If grandeur's guilty bribe they spurnec 
And home to virtue's lap returned, 
Those feet with angel wings shall vie. 
And tread the palace of the sky ! 



THE EBB-TIDE. 



-Sfer 



R. SOUTHEY. 



>LOWLY thy flowing tide 
Came in, old Avon ! Scarcely did mine 

eyes, 
As watchfully I roamed thy green- 
wood side, 
Perceive its gentle rise. 

"With many a stroke and strong 
The laboring boatmen upward plie.d their 

oars ; 
Yet little way they made, tho' laboring long 
Between thy winding shores. 

Now down thine ebbing tide 
The unlabored boat falls rapidly along ; 
The solitary helmsman sits to guide, 

And sings an idle song. 

Now o'er the rocks that lay 
So silent late the shallow current roars ; 



Fast flow thy waters on their seawara way, 
Through wider-spreading shores. 

Avon, I gaze and know 
The lesson emblemed m thy varying way ; 
It speaks of human joys that rise so slow, 

So rapidly decay. 

Kingdoms which long have stood 
And slow to strength and power attained at 

last, 
Thus from the summit of high Fortune's 
flood, 
They ebb to ruin fast. 

Thus like thy flow appears 
Time's tardy course to manhood's envied stage. 
Alas ! how hurry ingly the ebbing year=» 

Then hasten to old age ! 



YAWCOB STRAUSS. 



CHARLES F. ADAMS. 



HAF von funny leedle poy, 

Vot gomes schust to mine knee ; 
Der queerest schap, der createst rogue, 
As efer you dit see. 
I He runs, und schumps, und schmashes 
I dings 

J In all barts off der house : 
But vot off dot? he vas mine son, 
Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss. 



He get der measles und der mumbs, 

Und eferyding dot's oudt ; 
He sbills mine glass off lager bier, 

Poots schnuff indo mine kraut. 
He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheese, 

Dot vas der roughest chouse : 
I'd dake dot vrom no oder poy 

But leedle Yawcob Strauss. 



YAWCOB STRAUSS. 



419 



He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum, 
Und cuts mine cane in dwo, 

To make der schticks to beat it mit,- 
Mine cracious dot vas drue ! 



Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp 

Vene'er der glim I douse. 
How gan I all dose dings eggsblain 

To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss ? 




I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart, 

He kicks oup sooch a touse -. 
But nefer mind ; der poys vas few 

Like dot young Yawcob Strauss. 

He asks me questions sooch as dese : 
Who baints mine nose so red? 

Who vas it cut dot schmoodth blace oudt 
Vrom der hair ubon mine hed ? 



I somedimes dink I schall go vild 

Mit sooch a grazy poy, 
Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest, 

Und beaceful dimes enshoy ; 
But ven he vas ashleep in ped, 

So guiet as a mouse, 
I prays der Lord, " Dake anyding, 

But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss." 



420 ARTEMUS WARD VISITS THE SHAKERS. 



ARTEMUS WARD VISITS THE SHAKERS. 



CHARLES F. BROWN. 



^^iS^" SH AKEB," sed X > "y° u see before you a Babe in the Woods, 
so to speak, and tie axes a shelter of you." 

"Yay," said the Shaker, and he led the way into the 
house, another bein sent to put my horse and wagon under 

kiver. 

A solum female, lookin somewhat like a last year's bean-pole 
stuck into a long meal-bag, cum in and axed me was I athirst and did I 
hunger ? To which I asserted, " A few." She went orf, and I endeavored 
to open a conversation with the old man. 

" Elder, I spect," sed I. 

" Yay," he said. 

"Health's good, I reckon?" 

"Yay." 

" What's the wages of a Elder, when he understands his bizness— or 
do you devote your sarvices gratooitous ?" 

" Yay." 

" Storm nigh, sir ?" 

"Yay." 

" If the storm continues there'll be a mess underfoot, hay ?" 

"Yay." 

" If I may be so bold, kind sir, what's the price of that pecooler kind 
of wesket you wear, includin trimmins ?" 

"Yay." 

I pawsed a minit, and, thinkin I'd be faseshus with him and see how 
that would go, I slapt him on the shoulder, burst into a hearty larf, and 
told him that as a yayer he had no living ekel. 

He jumped up as if bilin water had been squirted into his ears, 
groaned, rolled his eyes up tords the sealin and sed : 

"You're a man of sin!" 

He then walked out of the room. 

Directly thar cum in two young Shakeresses, as putty and slick 
lookin galls as I ever met. It is troo they was drest in meal-bags like the 
old one I'd met previsly, and their shiny, silky hair was hid from sight by 
long, white caps, such as I spose female gosts wear; but their eyes spar- 
kled like diamonds, their cheeks was like roses, and they was charmin enuff 



THE LAND 0' THE LEAL. 



421 



to make a man throw stuns at his grandmother, if they axed him to. They 
commenst clearing away the dishes, casting shy glances at me all the time. 
I got excited. I forgot Betsey Jane in my rapter, and sez I, 

" My pretty dears, how air you ?" 

" We air well," they solumly sed. 

"Where is the old man?" said I, in a soft voice. 

"Of whom dost thou speak — Brother Uriah?" 

"I mean that gay and festive cuss who calls me a man of sin. 
Shouldn't wonder if his name wasn't Uriah." 

"He has retired." 

"Wall, my pretty dears," sez I, "let's have some fun. Let's play puss 
in the corner. What say ?" 

"Air you a Shaker, sir?" they asked. 

"Wall, my pretty dears, I haven't arrayed my proud form in a long 
weskit yet, but if they wus all like you perhaps I'd jine 'em. As it is, I 
am willing to be Shaker protemporary." 

They was full of fun. I seed that at fust, only they was a little 
skeery. I tawt 'em puss in the corner, and sich like plase, and we had a 
nice time, keepin quiet of course, so that the old man shouldn't hear. 
When we broke up, sez I : 

"My pretty dears, ear I go, you have no objections have you? to a 
innersent kiss at partin ?" 

"Yay," they said, and I — yayed. 



THE LAND 0' THE LEAL. 



LADY NAIRNE. 



)'M wearin' awa', Jean, 

Like snow in a thaw, Jean ; — 
I'm wearin' awa 

To the Land o' the Leal. 
There's nae sorrow there, Jean ; 
There's neither cauld nor care, Jean, 
The day is ever fair 

In the Land o 1 the Leal. 

Yon've been leal and true, Jean ; 
Your task's ended now, Jean ! 
And I'll welcome you 

To- the Land o' the Leal. 



Then dry that tearful' ee, Jean ! 
My soul langs to be free, Jean ; 
And angels wait on me 

To the Land o' the Leal. 

Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean, 
She was baith gude and fair, Jean ; 
And we grudged her sair 

To the Land o' the Leal ! 
But sorrow's sel' wears past, Jean, 
And joy's a-comin' fast, Jean : 
The joy that's aye to last, 

In the Land o' the Leal. 



422 



THE OWL. 



A' our friends are gane, Jean ; 
We've lang been left alane, Jean 
We'll a' meet again 

In the Land o* the Leal. 



Now, fare ye weel, my ain Jean ! 
This world's care is vain, Jean ; 
We'll meet, an' ay' be fain, 

In the Land o' the Leal. 



AS SHIPS BECALMED. 



ARTHUR H. CLOUGH. 



^|KS ships becalmed at eve, that lay 
*HM§|o With canvas drooping, side by side, 
Two towers of sail, at dawn of day 
Are scarce long leagues apart des- 
cried. 



When fell the night, up sprang the 
breeze, 

And all the darkling hours they plied ; 
Nor dreamt but each the selfsame seas 
By each was cleaving, side by side : 

E'en so — but why the tale reveal 

Of those whom, year by year unchanged, 

Brief absence joined anew, to feel, 
Astounded, soul from soul estranged ? 

At dead of night their sails were filled, 
And onward each rejoicing steered; 



Ah ! neither blame, for neither willed 
Or wist what first with dawn appeared. 

To veer, how vain ! On, onward strain, 
Brave barks ! — in light, in darkness too ! 

Through winds and tides one compass 
guides : 
To that and your own selves be true. 

But blithe breeze ! and great, seas ! 

Though ne'er that earliest parting past, 
On your wide plain they join again, 

Together lead them home at last. 

One port, methought, alike they sought, — 
One purpose hold where'er they fare ; 

bounding breeze, rushing seas, 
At last, at last, unite them there. 



THE OWL. 



BARRY CORNWALL. 



^N the hollow tree, in the old gray tower, 
The spectral owl doth dwell ; 
Dull, hated, despised, in the sunshine 
hour, 
But at dusk he's abroad and well ! 
Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with 
him; 

All mock him outright by day ; 
But at night, when the woods grow still and 
dim, 



The boldest will shrink away ! 

0, when the night falls, and roosts the 

fowl, 
Then, then, is the reign of the horned owl \ 

And the owl hath a bride, who is fond and 
bold, 
And loveth the wood's deep gloom ; 

And, with eyes like the shine of the moon- 
stone cold, 



THE NOTCH OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 



423 



She awaiteth her ghastly groom ; 
Not a feather she moves, not a carol she 
sings, 
As she waits in her tree so still ; 
But when her heart heareth his flapping 
wings, 
She hoots out her welcome shrill ! 

! when the moon shines, and dogs do 

howl, 
Then, then, is the joy of the horned owl ! 

Mourn not for the owl, nor his gloomy 
plight! 
The owl hath his share of good : 
If a prisoner he be in broad daylight, 

He is lord in the dark greenwood ! 
Nor lonely the bird, nor his ghastly mate, 

They are each unto each a pride ; 
Thrice fonder, perhaps, since a strange, dark 
fate 
Hath rent them from all beside ! 

So, when the night falls, and dogs do 

howl, 
Sing, ho! for the reign of the horned 
owl! 



We know not alway 
Who are kings by day, 




But the king of the night is the bold 
brown owl ! 



THE NOTCH OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 



TIMOTHY DWIGHT. 




pHE Notch of the White Mountains is a phrase appropriated to a 
very narrow defile, extending two miles in length, between two 
*^spk huge cliffs apparently rent asunder by some vast convulsion of 

nature. This convulsion was, in my own view, that of the deluge. 

There are here, and throughout New England, no eminent proofs of 
volcanic violence, nor any strong exhibitions of the power of earthquakes. 
Nor has history recorded any earthquake or volcano in other countries of 
sufficient efficacy to produce the phenomena of this place. The objects 
rent asunder are too great, the ruin is too vast and too complete, to have 
been accomplished by these agents. The change seems to have been 
effected when the surface of the earth extensively subsided ; when countries 
and continents assumed a new face; and a general commotion of the 
elements produced a disruption of some mountains, and merged others 
beneath the common level of desolation. Nothing less than this will 



424 THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. 

account for the sundering of a long range of great rocks, or rather of vast 
mountains ; or for the existing evidences of the immense force by which 
the rupture was effected. 

The entrance of the chasm is formed by two rocks, standing perpen- 
dicularly, at the distance of twenty-two feet from eack other ; one about 
twenty feet in height, the other about twelve. Half of the space is 
occupied by the brook mentioned as the head-stream of the Saco ; the other 
half by the road. The stream is lost and invisible beneath a mass of frag- 
ments, partly blown out of the road, and partly thrown down by some 
great convulsion. 

When we entered the Notch, we were struck with the wild and 
solemn appearance of every thing before us. The scale on which all the 
objects in view were formed was the scale of grandeur only. The rocks, 
rude and ragged in a manner rarely paralleled, were fashioned and piled by 
a hand operating only in the boldest and most irregular manner. As we 
advanced, these appearances increased rapidly. Huge masses of granite, 
of every abrupt form, and hoary with a moss which seemed the product of 
ages, recalling to the mind the saxum vetustum of Virgil, speedily rose to 
a mountainous height. Before us the view widened fast to the southeast. 
Behind us it closed almost instantaneously, and presented nothing to the 
eye but an impassable barrier of mountains. 

About half a mile from the entrance of the chasm, we saw, in full 
view, the most beautiful cascade, perhaps, in the world. It issued from a 
mountain on the right, about eight hundred feet above the subjacent valley, 
and at the distance from us of about two miles. The stream ran over a 
series of rocks almost perpendicular, with a course so little broken as to 
preserve the appearance of a uniform current ; and yet so far disturbed as 
to be perfectly white. The sun shone with the clearest splendor, from a 
station in the heavens the most advantageous to our prospect ; and the 
cascade glittered down the vast steep like a stream of burnished silver. 



THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. 



H. W. LONGFELLOW. 




&HIS is the ArsenaL From floor to 
ceiling, 
Like a huge organ, rise the burn- 
ished arms ; 
But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing 
Startles the villages with strange alarms. 



AH ! what a sound will rise — how wild and 
dreary — 
When the death-angel touches those swift 
keys ! 
What loud lament and dismal Miserere 
Will mingle with their awful symphonies. 



THE CHARCOAL MAN. 



425 



I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus — 
The cries of agony, the endless groan, 

Which, through the ages that have gone be- 
fore us, 
In long reverberations reach our own. 

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer ; 

Through Cimbric forest roars the Norse- 
man's song ; 
And loud, amid the universal clamor, 

O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. 

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace 
Wheels out his battle bell with fearful 
din; 
And Aztec priests upon their teocallis 

Beat the wild war-drums made of serpents' 
skin ; 

The tumult of each sacked and burning vil- 
lage; 
The shout that every prayer for mercy 
drowns ; 
The soldiers' revel in the midst of pillage ; 
The wail of famine in beleaguered towns ; 

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched 
asunder, 

The rattling musketry, the clashing blade — 
And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, 

The diapason of the cannonade. 



Is it, man, with such discordant noises, 
With such accursed instruments as these, 

Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly 
voices, 
And j arrest the celestial harmonies? 

Were half the power that fills the world with 
terror, 
Were half the wealth bestowed on camps 
and courts, 
Given to redeem the human mind from error, 
There were no need of arsenals nor forts ; 

The warrior's name would be a name ab- 
horred ; 

And every nation that should lift again 
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead 

Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain. 

Down the dark future, through long genera- 
tions, 
The echoing sounds grow fainter and then 
cease : 
And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, 
I hear once more the voice of Christ say, 
" Peace ! " 

Peace ! — and no longer from its brazen portals 
The blast of war's great organ shakes the 
skies ; 

But, beautiful as songs of the immortals, 
The holy melodies of love arise. 



THE CHARCOAL MAN. 



J. T. TROWBRIDGE. 




fJHOUG-H rudely blows the wintry blast, 
' And sifting snows fall white and fast 



Mark Haley drives along the street, 
Perched high upon his wagon seat ; 
His sombre face the storm defies, 
And thus from morn till eve he cries, — 
" Charco' ! charco' !" 
While echo faint and far replies, — 

" Hark, ! Hark, !" 
" Charco' !" — " Hark, '."-Such cheery sounds 
Attend him on his daily rounds. 



The dust begrimes his ancient hat ; 

His coat is darker far than that ; 

'Tis odd to see his sooty form 

All speckled with the feathery storm ; 

Yet in his honest bosom lies 

Nor spot, nor speck, though still he cries, — 

" Charco' ! charco' !" 
And many a roguish lad replies, — 

"Ark, ho! ark, ho !" 
" Charco' !"-" Ark, ho !"-Such various sounds 
Announce Mark Haley's morning rounds. 



426 



DOW'S FLAT— 1856. 



Thus all the cold and wintry day 
He labois much for little pay ; 
Yet feels no less of happiness 
Than many a richer man, I guess, 
When through the shades of eve he spies 
The light of his own home, and cries, — 

" Charco' ! charco' !" 
And Martha from the door replies, — 

" Mark, ho ! Mark, ho !" 
" Charco' !"-" Mark, ho !"-Such joy abounds 
"When he has closed his daily rounds. 

The hearth is warm, the fire is bright, 
And while his hand, washed clean and white, 
Holds Martha's tender hand once more, 
His glowing face bends fondly o'er 
The crib wherein his darling lies, 



And in a coaxing tone he cries, 

"Charco' ! charco' !" 
And baby with a laugh replies, — 

" Ah, go ! ah, go !" 
" Charco' !"-" Ah, go ;" — while at the sounds 
The mother's heart with gladness bounds. 

Then honored be the charcoal man ! 
Though dusky as an African, 
'Tis not for you, that chance to be 
A little better clad than he, 
His honest manhood to despise, 
Although from morn till eve he cries, — 

" Charco' ! charco' !" 
While mocking echo still replies, — 

" Hark, ! hark, !" 
" Charco' ! Hark, !" Long may these sounds 
Proclaim Mark Haley's daily rounds ! 



DOW'S FLAT— 1856. 




F. BRET HARTE. 



jOW'S Flat. That's its name, 
And I reckon that you 
Are a stranger ? The same ? 

Well, I thought it was true, 
For thar isn't a man on the river as 
can't spot the place at first view. 

It was called after Dow, — 

Which the same was an ass, — 
And as to the how 

That the thing came to pass, — 
Just tie up your hoss to that buckeye, and 
sit ye down here in the grass : 

You see this yer Dow 

Hed the worst kind of luck ; 
He slipped up somehow 

On each thing that he struck. 
Why, ef he'd ha' straddled that fence-rail, 
the derned thing 'ed get up and buck. 

He mined on the bar 

Till he couldn't pay rates ; 
He was smashed by a car 

When he tunnelled with Bates ; 
And right on the top of his trouble kem his 
wife and five kids from the States. 



It was rough — mighty rough ; 

But the boys they stood by, 

And they brought him the stuff 

For a house on the sly ; 

And the old woman — well, she did washing, 

and took on when no one was nigh. 

But this yer luck o' Dow's 

Was so powerful mean 
That the spring near his house 
Dried right up on the green ; 
And he sunk forty feet down for water, but 
nary a drop to be seen. 

Then the bar petered out, 

And the boys wouldn't stay -. 
And the chills got about, 
And his wife fell away ; 
But Dow in his well, kept a peggin' in his 
usual ridikilous way. 

One day, — it was June, 

And a year ago, jest, — 
This Dow kem at noon 
To his work, like the rest, 
With a shovel and pick on his shoulder, and 
a Derringer hid in hia breast. 



MOUNTAINS. 



427 



He goes to the well, 


For you see the dern cuss hed struck — 


And he stands on the brink, 


"Water?" — beg your parding, young 


And stops for a spell, 


man, there you lied. 


Just to listen and think ; 




For the sun in his eyes, (jest like this, sir,) 


It was gold, in the quartz, 


you see, kinder made the cuss blink. 


And it ran all alike ; 




I reckon five oughts 

Was the worth of that strike ; 


His two ragged gals 


In the gulch were at play, 


And that house with the coopilow's his'n — 


And a gownd that was Sal's 


which the same isn't bad for a Pike. 


Kinder flapped on a bay ; 




Not much for a man to be leavin', but his 




all, — as I've heerd the folks say. 


Thet's why it's Dow's Flat ; 




And the thing of it is 


And, — that's a pert hoss 


That he kinder got that 


Thet you've got, ain't it now ? 


Through sheer contrariness ; 


"What might be her cost ? 


For 'twas water the derned cuss was seekin'; 


Eh ? !— Well, then, Dow,— 


and his luck made him certain to miss. 


Let's see,— well, that forty-foot grave wasn't 




his, sir, that day, anyhow. 


Thet's so. Thar's your way 




To the left of yon tree ; 


For a blow of his pick 


But — a — look h'yur, say ! 


Sorter caved in the side, 


Won't you come up to tea ? 


And he looked and turned sick, 


No? Well then, the next time you're passin' ; 


Then he trembled and cried. 


and ask after Dow, — and thet's me. 



MOUNTAINS. 



MRS. MARY HOWITT. 



prpHERE is a charm connected with mountains, so powerful that the 
silll merest mention of them, the merest sketch of their magnificent 
^p^ 1 features, kindles the imagination, and carries the spirit at once into 
+ the bosom of their enchanted regions. How the mind is filled 
J with their vast solitude ! how the inward eye is fixed on their silent, 
their sublime, their everlasting peaks ! How our heart bounds to the 
music of their solitary cries, to the tinkle of the gushing rills, to the sound 
of their cataracts ! How inspiriting are the odors that breathe from the 
upland turf, from the rock-hung flower, from the hoary and solemn pine ! 
how beautiful are those lights and shadows thrown abroad, and that fine, 
transparent haze which is diffused over the valleys and lower slopes, as 
over a vast, inimitable picture ! 

At the autumnal season, the ascents of our own mountains are most 
practicable. The heat of summer has dried up the moisture with which 



428 



MOUNTAINS. 



winter rains saturate the spongy turf of the hollows ; and the atmosphere, 
clear and settled, admits of the most extensive prospects. Whoever 

has not ascended our 
mountains knows 
little of the beauties 
of this beautiful is- 
land. Whoever has 
not climbed their 
long and heathy as- 
cents, and seen the 
trembling mountain 
flowers, the glowing 
moss, the richly 
tinted lichens at his 
feet ; and scented 
the fresh aroma of 
the uncultivated sod, 
and of the spicy 
shrubs; and heard 
the bleat of the flock 
across their solitary 
expanses, and the 
wild cry of the moun- 
tain plover, the ra- 
ven, ' or the eagle ; 
and seen the rich 
and russet hues of 
distant slopes and 
eminences, the livid 
gashes of ravines and precipices, the white glittering line of falling waters, 
and the cloud tumultuously whirling round the lofty summit; and then 
stood panting on that summit, and beheld the clouds alternately gather and 
break over a thousand giant peaks and ridges of every varied hue, but all 
silent as images of eternity ; and cast his gaze over lakes and forests, and 
smoking towns, and wide lands to the very ocean, in all their gleaming 
and reposing beauty, knows nothing of the treasures of pictorial wealth 
which his own country possesses. 

But when we let loose the imagination from even these splendid 
scenes, and give it free charter to range through the far more glorious 
ridges of continental mountains, through Alps, Apennines, or Andes, how 




ALPINE PEAKS. 



OLD TIMES AND NEW. 



429 



is it possessed and absorbed by all the awful magnificence of their scenery 
and character ! 



OLD TIMES AND NEW. 




|WAS in my easy chair at home, 
About a week ago, 
I sat and puffed my light cigar, 
As usual, you must know. 

I mused upon the Pilgrim flock, 
Whose luck it was to land 

Upon almost the only Rock 
Among the Plymouth sand. 

In my mind's eye, I saw them leave 

Their weather beaten bark — 
Before them spread the wintry wilds, 

Behind, rolled Ocean dark. 

Alone that noble handful stood 
While savage foes lurked nigh — 

Their creed and watchword, " Trust in God, 
And keep your powder dry." 

Imagination's pencil then 

That first stern winter painted, 
When more than half their number died 

And stoutest spirits fainted. 

A tear unbidden filled one eye, 

My smoke had filled the other. 
One sees strange sights at such a time, 

Which quite the senses bother. 

I knew I was alone — but lo ! 

(Let him who dares, deride me ;) 
I looked, and drawing up a chair, 

Down sat a man beside me. 

His dress was ancient, and his air 
Was somewhat strange and foreign ; 

He civiny returned my stare, 

And said, " I'm Richard Warren. 

" You'll find my name among the list 

Of hero, sage and martyr, 
Who, in the Mayflower's cabin, signed 

The first New England charter. 



A. C. SPOONER. 



" I could some curious facts impart — 
Perhaps, some wise suggestions — 

But then I'm bent on seeing sights, 
And running o'er with questions." 

" Ask on," said I ; " I'll do my best 

To give you information, 
Whether of private men you ask, 

Or our renowned nation." 

Says he, "First tell me what is that 

In your compartment narrow, 
Which seems to dry my eye-balls up, 

And scorch my very marrow." 

His finger pointed to the grate, 

Said I, " That's Lehigh coal, 
Dug from the earth," — he shook his head — 

" It is, upon my soul !" 

I then took up a bit of stick, 

One end as black as night, 
And rubbed it quick across the hearth, 

When, lo ! a sudden light ! 

My guest drew back, uprolled his eyes, 
And strove his breath to catch ; 

" What necromancy's that?" he cried, 
Quoth I, "A friction match." 

Upon a pipe just overhead 

I turned a little screw, 
When forth, with instantaneous flash, 

Three streams of lightning flew. 

Uprose my guest : "Now Heaven me save,' 

Aloud he shouted ; then, 
" Is that hell-fire ?" " 'Tis gas," said I, 

" We call it hydrogen." 

Then forth into the fields we strolled ; 

A train came thundering by, 
Drawn by the snorting iron steed 

Swifter than eagles fly. 



430 



BATTLE SONG OF GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS. 



Rumbled the wheels, the whistle shrieked, 
Jd ar streamed the smoky cloud ; 

Echoed the hills, the valleys shook, 
The flying forest bowed. 

Down on his knees, with hand upraised 

In worship, Warren fell; 
" Great is the Lord our God," cried he; 

" He doeth all things well. 

I've seen his chariots of fire, 

The horsemen, too, thereof; 
Oh may I ne'er forget his ire, 

Nor at his threatenings scoff." 

" Rise up, my friend, rise up," said I, 

" Your terrors all are vain, 
That was no chariot of the sky, 

'Twas the New York mail train." 

We stood within a chamber small — 

Men came the news to know 
From Worcester, Springfield and New York, 

Texas and Mexico. 

It came — it went — silent and sure — 
He stared, smiled, burst out laughing ; 

"What witchcraft's that?" "It's what we 
call 
Magnetic telegraphing." 

Once more we stepped into the street ; 

Said Warren, " What is that 
Which moves along across the way 

As smoothly as a cat ? 



" I mean the thing upon two legb, 

With feathers on its head — 
A monstrous hump below its waist 

Large as a feather-bed. 

" It has the gift of speech, I hear; 

But sure it can't be human !" 
" My amiable friend," said I, 

" That's what we call a woman !" 

" A woman ! no — it cannot be," 
Sighed he, with voice that faltered : 

" I loved the women in my day, 
But oh ! they're strangely altered." 

I showed him then a new machine 
For turning eggs to chickens — 

A labor-saving hennery, 

That beats the very dickens ! 

Thereat he strongly grasped my hand, 

And said, " 'Tis plain to see 
This world is so transmogrified 

'Twill never do for me. 

" Your telegraphs, your railroad-trains, 
Your gas-lights, friction matches, 

Your hump-backed women, rocks for coal, 
Your thing which chickens hatches, 

" Have turned the earth so upside down, 

No peace is left within it ;" 
Then whirling round upon his heel, 

He vanished in a minute. 



BATTLE SONG OF GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS. 



MICHAEL ALTENBURG-. 




fJjjEAR not, little flock ! the foe 

Who madly seeks your overthrow, 
Dread not his rage and power ; 
What though your courage some- 
times faints ? 
•f His seeming triumph o'er God'g 

J saints 

Lasts but a little hour. 



Be of good cheer ; your cause belongs 
To Him who can avenge your wrongs. 

Leave it to Him, our Lord. 
Though hidden now from all our eyes, 
He sees the Gideon who shall rise 

To save us, and His word. 

As true as God's own word is true 



OLD. 



431 



Not earth or hell with all their crew 
Against us shall prevail. 

A jest and by-word are they grown ; 
God is with us, we are his own, 
Our victory cannot fail. 



Amen, Lord Jesus ; grant our prayer ! 
Great Captain, now thine arm make bare 

Fight for us once again ! 
So shall the saints and martyrs raise 
A mighty chorus to thy praise, 

World without end ! Amen. 




OLD. 




RALPH HOYT. 



Y the wayside, on a mossy stone, 
Sat a hoary pilgrim sadly musing ; 
Oft I marked him sitting there 
alone, 
All the landscape like a page pe- 
rusing : 

Poor, unknown, 
Py the wayside, on a mossy stone. 



Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed 
hat, 
Coat as ancient as the form 'twas folding ; 
Silver buttons, queue, and crimped cravat, 
Oaken staff, his feeble hand upholding ; 
There he sat! 
Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed 
hat. 



432 



OLD. 



Seemed it pitiful he should sit there, 
ino one sympathizing, no one heeding, 

None to love him for his thin, gray hair, 
And the furrows all so mutely pleading 
Age and care : 

Seemed it pitiful he should sit there. 

It was Summer, and we went to school, 
Dapper country lads, and little maidens, 

Taught the motto of the "dunce's stool," 
Its grave import still my fancy ladens : 
" Here's a fool ! " 

It was Summer and we went to school. 

When the stranger seemed to mark our play 
Some of us were joyous, some sad-hearted. 

I remember well, too well, that day ! 
Oftentimes the tears unbidden started, 
"Would not stay, 

When the stranger seemed to mark our play. 

One sweet spirit broke the silent spell : 
Ah ! to me her name was always Heaven ! 

She besought him all his grief to tell : 
(I was then thirteen and she eleven), 
Isabel ! 

One sweet spirit broke the silent spell. 

" Angel," said he sadly, " I am old ; 

Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow ; 
Yet, why I sit here thou shalt be told." 

Then his eye betrayed a pearl of sorrow ; 
Down it rolled ! 
" Angel," said he sadly, "I am old." 

"I have tottered here to look once more 
On the pleasant scene where I delighted 

In the careless, happy days of yore, 

Ere the garden of my heart was blighted 
To the core : 

I have tottered here once more. 

" All the picture now to me how dear ; 

E'en this grave old rock, where I am seated, 
Is a jewel worth my journey here ; 

Ah, that such a scene must be completed 
With a tear ! 
All the picture now to me how dear ! 

" Old stone school-house ! — it is still the same : 
There's the very step I so oft mounted ; 



There's the window creaking in its frame, 
And the notches that I cut and counted 
For the game : 
Old stone school-house ! — it is still the same. 

" In the cottage, yonder, I was born ; 

Long my happy home that humble dwelling 
There the fields of clover, wheat, and corn, 
There the spring, with limpid nectar swell- 
ing : 

Ah, forlorn ! 
In the cottage, yonder, I was born. 

" Those two gateway sycamores you see 
Then were planted just so far asunder. 

That long well-pole from the path to free, 
And the wagon to pass safely under : 
Ninety -three ! 

Those two gateway sycamores you see. 

"There's the orchard where we used to climb 
When my mates and I were boys together, 
Thinking nothing of the flight of time, 
Fearing naught but work and rainy 
weather : 

Past its prime ! 
There's the orchard where we used to climb. 

" There's the rude, three-cornered chestnut 
rails, 
Round the pasture where the flocks were 
grazing, 
Where, so sly, I used to watch for quails — 
In the crops of buckwheat we were raising : 
Traps and trails ! 
There's the rude three-cornered chestnut rails. 

"There's the mill that ground our yellow 
grain : 
Pond, and river still serenely flowing ; 
Cot, there resting in the shaded lane, 

Where the lily of my heart was blowing: 
Mary Jane ! 
There's the mill that ground our yellow grain. 

" There's the gate on which I used to swing, 
Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red 
stable. 
But alas ! no more the morn shall bring 
That dear group around my father's ta 1 e. 
Taken wing ! 
There's the gate on which I used to sv.'ing. 



THE DOMAIN OF ARNHEIM. 



433 



"I am fleeing — all I loved have fled. 

Yon green meadow was our place for play- 
ing. 
That old tree can tell of sweet things said 
When around it Jane and I were straying ; 
She is dead ! 
I am fleeing — all I loved have fled. 

" Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky, 
Tracing silently life's changeful story, 

So familiar to my dim old eye, 

Points to seven that are now in glory 
There on high : 

Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky ! 

" Oft the aisle of that old church we trod, 
Guided thither by an angel mother ; 

Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod ; 
Sire and sisters, and my little brother, 
Gone to God ! 

Oft the aisle of that old church we trod. 

" There I heard of "Wisdom's pleasant ways : 
Bless the holy lesson ! — but ah, never 

Shall I hear again those songs of praise — 
Those sweet voices — silent now forever ; 
Peaceful days ! 

There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways. 



" There my Mary blessed me with her hand 
When our souls drank in the nuptial 
blessing, 
Ere she hastened to the spirit-land, 

Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing ; 
Broken band ! 
There my Mary blessed me with her hand. 

" I have come to see that grave once more, 
And the sacred place where we delighted, 

Where we worshipped, in the days of yore, 
Ere the garden of my heart was blighted 
To the core ; 

I have come to see that grave once more. 

" Angel," said he sadly, " I am old ; 

Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow ; 
Now, why I sit here thou hast been told." 

In his eye another pearl of sorrow ; 
Down it rolled, 
"Angel," said he sadly, " I am old." 

By the wayside, on a mossy stone, 
Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing ; 

Still I marked him sitting there alone, 
All the landscape, like a page, perusing ; 
Poor, unknown ! 

By the wayside, on a mossy stone. 



THE DOMAIN OF ARNHEIM. 



EDGAR A. POE. 




pHE usual approach to Arnheim was by the river. The visitor left 

the city early in the morning. During the forenoon he passed 

between shores of a tranquil and domestic beauty, on which grazed 

Jjr innumerable sheep, their white fleeces spotting the vivid green of 

J rolling meadows. By degrees the idea of cultivation subsided into 

that of merely pastoral care. This slowly became merged in a 

sense of retirement — this again in a consciousness of solitude. As the 

evening approached, the channel grew more narrow ; the banks more and 

more precipitous ; and these latter were clothed in richness, more profuse, 

and more sombre foliage. The water increased in transparency. The 

stream took a thousand turns, so that at no moment could its gleaming 

surface be seen for a greater distance than a furlong. At every instant the 

28 



434 



THE DOMAIN OF ARNHEIM. 



vessel seemed imprisoned within an enchanted circle, having insuperable 
and impenetrable walls of foliage, a roof of ultra-marine satin, and no floor 




APPKOACH TO AENHEIM. 



—the keel balancing itself with admirable nicety on that of a phantom 
bark which, by some accident having been turned upside down, floated in 
constant company with the substantial one, for the purpose of sustaining it. 



THE DOMAIN OF AENHEIM. 435 

The channel now became a gorge — although the term is somewhat in- 
applicable, and I employ it merely because the language has no word which 
better represents the most striking — not the most distinctive — feature of 
the scene. The character of gorge was maintained only in the height 
and parallelism of the shores ; it was altogether lost in their other traits. 
The walls of the ravine through which the water still tranquilly flowed, 
arose to such an elevation, and were so precipitous as in a great measure, to 
shut out the light of day ; while the long plume-like moss which depended 
densely from the intertwining shrubberies overhead, gave the whole chasm 
an air of funereal gloom. The windings became more frequent and more 
intricate, and seemed often as if returning in upon themselves, so that 
the voyager had long lost all idea of direction. 

Having threaded the mazes of this channel for some hours, the gloom 
deepening every moment, a sharp and unexpected turn of the vessel brought 
it suddenly, as if dropped from heaven, into a circular basin of very con- 
siderable extent when compared with the width of the gorge .... The 
visitor, shooting suddenly into this bay from out of the gloom of the ravine, 
is delighted, but astounded by the full orb of the declining sun, which •he- 
had supposed to be already far below the horizon, but which now confronts 
him, and forms the sole termination of an otherwise limitless vista seen 
through another chasm-like rift in the hills. 

But here the voyager quits the vessel which has borne him so far, 
and descends into a light canoe of ivory, stained with arabesque devices 
in vivid scarlet, both within and without. The poop and beak of this boat 
arise high above the water, with sharp points, so that the general form is 
that of an irregular crescent. It lies on the surface of the bay with the 
proud grace of the swan. On its ermined floor reposes a single feathery 
paddle of satin-wood ; but no oarsman or attendant is to be seen. The 
guest is bidden to be of good cheer — that the Fates will take care of him. 
The larger vessel disappears, and he is left alone in the canoe, which lies 
apparently motionless in the middle of the lake. While he considers what 
course to pursue, however, he becomes aware of a gentle movement in the 
fairy bark. It slowly surges itself around until its prow points toward 
the sun. It advances with a gentle but gradually accelerated velocity, 
while the slight ripples it creates break about the ivory sides in divinest 
melody, and seem to offer the only possible explanation of the soothing 
yet melancholy music for whose unseen origin the bewildered voyager 
looks around him in vain. 

The canoe steadily proceeds, and the rocky gate of the vista is ap- 
proached, so that its depths can be more distinctly seen .... On drawing 



i36 THE BUGLE. 



nearer to this, however, its chasm-like appearance vanishes; a new outlet 
from the bay is discovered to the left — in which direction the wall is also 
seen to sweep, still following the general course of the stream. Down this 
new opening the eye cannot penetrate very far; for the stream, accompanied 
by the wall, still bends to the left, until both are swallowed up. 

Floating gently onward, but with a velocity slightly augmented, the 
voyager, after many short turns, finds his progress apparently barred by a 
gigantic gate or rather door of burnished gold, elaborately covered and fret- 
ted, and reflecting the direct rays of the now fast-sinking sun with an ef- 
fulgence that seems to wreathe the whole surrounding forest in flames. This 
gate is inserted in the lofty wall ; which here appears to cross the river at 
right angles. In a few moments, however, it is seen that the main body of 
the water still sweeps in a gentle and extensive curve to the left, the wall fol- 
lowing it as before, while a stream of considerable volume, diverging from 
the principal one, makes its way, with a slight ripple, under the door, and 
is thus hidden from sight. The canoe falls into the lesser channel and 
approaches the gate. Its ponderous wings are slowly and musically 
expanded. The boat glides between them, and commences a rapid descent 
into a vast amphitheatre, entirely begirt with purple mountains; whose 
bases are laved by a gleaming river throughout the whole extent of their 
circuit. Meantime the whole Paradise of Arnheim bursts upon the view. 
There is a gush of entrancing melody ; there is an oppressive sense of 
strange sweet odor ; — there is a dream-like intermingling to the eye of tall 
slender Eastern trees — bosky shubberies — flocks of golden and crimson 
birds — lily-fringed lakes — meadows of violets, tulips, poppies, hyacinths 
and tuberoses — long intertangled lines of silver streamlets — and, upspring- 
ing confusedly from amid all, a mass of semi-Gothic, semi-Saracenic archi- 
tecture, sustaining itself as if by miracle in mid air ; glittering in the red 
sunlight with a hundred orioles, minarets, and pinnacles ; and seeming 
the phantom handiwork, conjointly, of the Sylphs, of the Fairies, of the 
Genii, and of the Gnomes. 



THE BUGLE, 



TENNYSON. 




|HE splendor falls on castle walls 

And snowy summits old in story : 

The long light shakes across the lakes, 

And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 



Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes fly- 
ing. 

Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying., 
dying. 



THE CLOUD. 



437 



O hark ! O hear ! how thin and clear, 
And thinner, clearer, farther going ! 
sweet and far, from cliff and scar, 
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! 
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying : 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, 
dying. 



love, they die in yon rich sky, 

They faint on hill or field or river: 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 
And grow forever and forever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, 
dying. 



THE CLOUD. 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



BEING fresh showers for the thirsty 
flowers, 
From the seas and the streams ; 
I bear light shade for the leaves when 
laid 
In their noonday dreams. 
From my wings are shaken the dews 
that waken 
The sweet buds every one, 
"When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, 

As she dances about the sun. 
I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 

And whiten the green plains under, 
And then again I dissolve it in rain, 
And laugh as I pass in thunder. 

I sift the snow on the mountains below, 

And their great pines groan aghast ; 
And all the night 'tis my pillow white, 

While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 
While on the towers of my skiey bowers, 

Lightning, my pilot, sits ; 
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder ; 

It struggles and howls at fits. 
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, 

This pilot is guiding me, 
Lured by the love of the genii that move 

In the depths of the purple sea ; 
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, 

Over the lakes and the plains, 
Wherever he dream, under mountain and 
stream, 

The Spirit he loves remains ; 
And I all the while bask in heaven's blue 
smile, 

Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 



The sanguine surprise, with his meteor 
eyes, 

And his burning plumes outspread, 
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, 

When the morning star shines dead. 
As, on the jag of a mountain crag, 

Which an earthquake rocks and swings, 
An eagle, alit, one moment may sit 

In the light of its golden wings. 
And when sunset may breathe, from the lit 
sea beneath, 

Its ardors of rest and love, 
And the crimson pall of eve may fall, 

From the depths of heaven above, 
With wings folded I rest on mine airy 
nest, 

As still as a brooding dove. 

That orbe*d maiden with white fire laden, 

Whom mortals call the moon, 
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, 

By the midnight breezes strewn ; 
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, 

Which only the angels hear, 
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin 
roof, 

The stars peep behind her and peer : 
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, 

Like a swarm of golden bees, 
When I widen the rent in my wind-built 
tent, 

Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, 
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on 
high, 

Are each paved with the moon and these. 



438 



I'M GROWING OLD. 



I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, 

And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; 
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and 
swim, 

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, 

Over a torrent sea, 
Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof, 

The mountains its columns be, 
The triumphal arch, through which I march, 

With hurricane, fire, and snow, 
When the powers of the air are chained to 
my chair, 

Is the million colored bow ; 
The sphere-fire above, its soft colors move, 

Whilst the moist earth was laughing below. 



I am the daughter of earth and water, 

And the nursling of the sky ; 
I pass through the pores of the ocean and 



I change, but I cannot die. 
But after a rain, when, with never a stain, 

The pavilion of heaven is bare, 
And the winds and sunbeams, with their 
convex gleams, 

Build up the blue dome of air — 
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, 

And out of the caverns of rain, 
Like a child from the womb, like 
from the tomb, 

I arise and build it again 



host 



FM GEO WING OLD. 




JOHN G. SAXE. 



pY days pass pleasantly away, 
lllJjjgB My nights are blest with sweet- 
pb est sleep ; 

^ I feel no symptoms of decay, 

I have no cause to mourn or weep ; 
My foes are impotent and shy, 

My friends are neither false nor cold ; 
And yet of late, I often sigh : 

" I'm growing old." 

My growing talk of olden times, 
My growing thirst for early news, 

My growing apathy to rhymes, 
My growing love of easy shoes, 

My growing hate of crowds and noise, 
My growing fear of taking cold ; 

All whisper in the plainest voice, 

I'm growing old. 

I'm growing fonder of my staff, 
I'm growing dimmer in the eyes, 

I'm growing fainter in my laugh, 
I'm growing deeper in my sighs, 

I'm growing careless of my dress, 
I'm growing frugal of my gold, 

I'm growing wise, I'm growing — yes, 
I'm growing old. 



I see it in my changing taste, 
I see it in my changing hair, 

I see it in my growing waist, 
I see it in my growing heir ; 

A thousand signs proclaim the truth, 
As plain as ever truth was told, 

That even in my vaunted youth, 

I'm growing old. 

Ah me ! my very laurels breathe 
The tale in my reluctant ears, 

And every boon the hours bequeathe 
But makes me debtor to the Years. 

E'en Flattery's honeyed words declare 
The secret she would fain withhold, 

And tell me, in " How young you are," 
I'm growing old. 

Thanks for the years whose rapid flight 
My sombre muse too sadly sings ! 

Thanks for the gleams of golden light 
That tint the darkness of their wings: 

The light that beams from out the sky, 
Those heavenly mansions to unfold 

Where all are blest, and none may sigh 
" I'm growing old." 




" My days pass pleasantly away 

My nights are blessed with sweetest sleep; 

I feel no symptoms of decay, 

I have no cause to mourn or weep; 



My foes are impotent and shy, 

My friends are neither false nor cold 

And yet,, of late, I often sigh : 

* I'm growing old.' 



THE STORMY PETREL. 



439 




THE STORMY PETREL. 



BARRY CORNWALL. 



■^^jjK thousand miles from land are we 
Tossing about on the stormy sea, 
From billow to 



bounding billow 
snow on the stormy 



@j >» cast, 

4- Like fleecy 

I blast. 

The sails are scattered abroad like 
weeds ; 

The strong masts shake like quivering reeds; 

The mighty cables and iron chains, 

The hull, which all earthly strength dis- 
dains, 

They strain and they crack ; and hearts like 
stone 

Their natural, hard, proud strength disown. 



Up and down ! 
From the 



up and down ! 

of the wave to the billow's 
crown, 
And amidst the flashing and feathery foam 
The stormy petrel finds a home, 



A home, if such a place may be 

For her who lives on the wide, wide sea, 

On the craggy ice, in the frozen air, 

And only seeketh her rocky lair 

To warm her young and to teach them to 

spring 
At once o'er the waves on their stormy 

wing, 

O'er the deep ! o'er the deep ! 

Where the whale and the shark and the 

sword-fish sleep 
Outflying the blast and the driving rain, 
The petrel telleth her tale — in vain ; 
For the mariner curseth the warning bird 
Who bringeth him news of the storm un- 
heard ! 
Ah ! thus does the prophet of good or ill 
Meet hate from the creatures he serveth still ; 
Yet he ne'er falters, — so, petrel, spring 
Once more o'er the waves on thy stormy wing. 



440 



IDEAS THE LIFE OF A PEOPLE. 



SONG OF THE STORMY PETREL. 



&k 




phe lark sings for joy in her own loved 
land, 
In the furrowed field, by the breezes 
fanned ; 
And so revel we 
In the furrowed sea, 
As joyous and glad as the lark can be 

On the placid breast of the inland lake, 
The wild duck delights her pastime to take ; 

But the petrel braves 

The wild ocean waves, 
His wing in the foaming billow he laves. 



The halcyon loves in the noontide beam 
To follow his sport on the tranquil stream, 

He fishes at ease 

In the summer breeze, 
But we go angling in stormiest seas. 

No song note have we but a piping cry, 
That blends with the storm when the wind is 
high. 

When the land birds wail 

We sport in the gale, 
And merrily over the ocean we sail. 



IDEAS TEE LIFE OF A PEOPLE. 



GEORGE W. CURTIS. 




1HE leaders of our Revolution were men of whom the simple truth is 
the highest praise. Of every condition in life, they were singularly 
sagacious, sober, and thoughtful. Lord Chatham spoke only the- 
truth when he said to Franklin, of the men who composed the first 
colonial Congress: "The Congress is the most honorable assembly 
of statesmen since those of the ancient Greeks and Romans in the 
most virtuous times." Given to grave reflection, they were neither 
dreamers nor visionaries, and they were much too earnest to be rhetori- 
cians. It is a curious fact, that they were generally men of so calm a. 
temper that they lived to extreme age. With the exception of Patrick 
Henry and Samuel Adams, they were most of them profound scholars, and. 
studied the history of mankind that they might know men. They were so 
familiar with the lives and thoughts of the wisest and best minds of the 
past that a classic aroma hangs about their writings and their speech ; and 
they were profoundly convinced of what statesmen always know, and the 
adroitest mere politicians never perceive, — that ideas are the life of a 
people; that the conscience, not the pocket, is the real citadel of a nation; 
and that when you have debauched and demoralized that conscience by 
teaching that there are no natural rights, and that therefore there is no- 
moral right or wrong in political action, you have poisoned the wells and. 
rotted the crops in the ground. 



LITTLE AND GREAT. 



441 



The three greatest living statesmen of England knew this also. 
Edmund Burke knew it, and Charles James Fox, and William Pitt, Earl 
of Chatham. But they did not speak for the King, or Parliament, or the 
English nation. Lord Gower spoke for them when he said in Parliament: 
"Let the Americans talk about their natural and divine rights; their 
rights as men and citizens ; their rights from God and nature ! I am for 
enforcing these measures." My lord was contemptuous, and the King hired 
the Hessians, but the truth remained true. The Fathers saw the scarlet 
soldiers swarming over the sea,- but more steadily they saw that national 
progress had been secure only in the degree that the political system had 
conformed to natural justice. They knew the coming wreck of property 
and trade, but they knew more surely that Borne was never so rich as when 
she was dying, and, on the other hand, the Netherlands, never so powerful 
as when they were poorest. Farther away they read the names of Assyria, 
Greece, Egypt. They had art, opulence, splendor. Corn enough grew in 
the valley of the Nile. The Syrian sword was as sharp as any. They 
were merchant princes, and the clouds in the sky were rivaled by their sails 
upon the sea. They were soldiers, and their frown frightened the world. 

"Soul, take thine ease," those empires said, languid with excess of 
luxury and life. Yes: but you remember the king who had built his 
grandest palace, and was to occupy it upon the morrow; but when the 
morrow came the palace was a pile of ruins. "Woe is me!" cried the 
King, "who is guilty of this crime?" "There is no crime," replied the 
sage at his side ; " but the mortar was made of sand and water only, and 
the builders forgot to put in the lime." So fell the old empires, because the 
governors forgot to put justice into their governments.' 



LITTLE AND GREAT 



CHARLES MACKAY. 




TRAVELER through a dusty 
road, 
Strewed acorns on the lea ; 
And one took root and sprouted up, 

And grew into a tree. 
Love sought its shade at evening 
time, 
To breathe his early vows ; 
And age was pleased, in heats of noon, 
To bask beneath its boughs. 



The dormouse loved its dangling twige 
The birds sweet music bore ; 

It stood a glory in its place, 
A blessing evermore. 

A little spring had lost its way 

Amid the grass and fern ; 
A passing stranger scooped a well, 

Where weary men might turn, 



442 



LITTLE AND GREAT. 



He walked in it, and hung with care 


It shone upon a genial mind, 


A ladle at the brink ; 


And lo ! its light became 


He thought not of the deed he did, 


A lamp of life, a beacon ray, 


But judged that Toil might drink. 


A monitory flame. 




He passed again — and lo ! the well, 

By summers never dried, 
Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues, 

And saved a life beside. 

A dreamer dropped a random thought ; 

'Twas old — and yet 'twas new, 
A simple fancy of the brain, 

But strong in being true. 



The thought was small — its issue great, 

A watch-fire on the hill, 
It sheds its radiance far adown, 

And cheers the valley still. 

A nameless man, amid a crowd 
That thronged the daily mart, 

Let fall a word of hope and love, 
Unstudied, from the heart. 




The beautiful snow, Filling the sky and the earth below ! 



BEAUTIFUL SNOW. 



44.: 



A whisper on the tumult thrown, 


germ ! fount ! word of love ! 


A transitory breath, 


thought at random cast ! 


It raised a brother from the dust, 


Ye were but little at the first, 


It saved a soul from death. 


But mighty at the last ! 



BEA UTIFUL SNO W. 



JAMES W. WATSON. 




THE snow, the beautiful snow, 
Filling the sky and the earth below ! 
Over the house-tops, over the street, 
Over the heads of the people you 
meet, 
Dancing, 
Flirting, 

Skimming along. 
Beautiful snow ! it can do nothing wrong. 
Flying to kiss a fair lady's cheek ; 
Clinging to lips in a frolicsome freak. 
Beautiful snow, from the heavens above, 
Pure as an angel and fickle as love ! 

the snow, the beautiful snow ! 
How the flakes gather and laugh as they go ! 
Whirring about in its maddening fun, 
It plays in its glee with every one. 
Chasing, 

Laughing, 

Hurrying by, 
It lights up the face and it sparkles the eye ; 
And even the dogs, with a bark and a bound, 
Snap at the crystals that eddy around. 
The town is alive, and its heart in a glow 
To welcome the coming of beautiful snow. 

How the wild crowd goes swaying along, 
Hailing each other with humor and song ! 
How the gay sledges like meteors flash by, — 
Bright for a moment, then lost to the eye. 
Ringing, 

Swinging, 

Dashing they go 
Over the crest of the beautiful snow : 
Snow so pure when it falls from the sky. 
To be trampled in mud by the crowd rushing 
by; 



To be trampled and tracked by the thou- 
sands of feet 
Till it blends with the horrible filth in the 

street. 

Once I was pure as the snow, — but I fell: 
Fell, like the snowflakes, from heaven — to 

hell; 
Fell, to be tramped as the filth of the street : 
Fell, to be scoffed, to be spit on, and beat. 
Pleading, 
Cursing, 

Dreading to die, 
Selling my soul to whoever would buy, 
Dealing in shame for a morsel of bread, 
Hating the living and fearing the dead. 
Merciful G-od ! have I fallen so low ? 
And yet I was once like this beautiful snow ! 

Once I was fair as the beautiful snow, 
With an eye like its crystals, a heart like its 

glow; 
Once I was loved for my innocent grace, — 
Flattered and sought for the charm of my 

face. 
Father, 

Mother, 

Sisters all, 
God, and myself I have lost by my fall. 
The veriest wretch that goe_s shivering by 
Will take a wide sweep, lest I wander too 

nigh; 
For of all that is on or about me, I know 
There is nothing that's pure but the beautiful 

snow. 

How strange it should be that this beautiful 
snow 



444 



THE BIRTHDAY OF WASHINGTON. 



Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go ! 
How strange it would be, when the night 

comes again, 
If the snow and the ice struck my desperate 
brain ! 
Fainting, 

Freezing, 

Dying alone, 



Too wicked for prayer, too weak for my 

moan 
To be heard in the crash of the crazy town, 
Gone mad in its joy at the snow's coming 

down; 
To lie and to die in my terrible woe, 
With a bed and a shroud of the beautiful 

snow! 



THE BIRTHDAY OF WASHINGTON. 



RUFUS CHOATE. 




iB^fHE birthday of the "Father of his Country!" May it ever be 
freshly remembered by American hearts ! May it ever re-awaken 
in them a filial veneration for his memory ; ever re-kindle the fires 
of patriotic regard for the country which he loved so well, to which 
he gave his youthful vigor and his youthful energy, during the 
perilous period of the early Indian warfare ; to which he devoted 
his life in the maturity of his powers, in the field ; to which again he 
offered the counsels of his wisdom and his experience, as president of the 
convention that framed our Constitution ; which he guided and directed 
while in the chair of state, and for which the last prayer of his earthly 
supplication was offered up, when it came the moment for him so well, and 
so grandly, and so calmly, to die. He was the first man of the time in 
which he grew. His memory is first and most sacred in our love, and 
ever hereafter, till the last drop of blood shall freeze in the last American 
heart, his name shall be a spell of power and of might. 

Yes, gentlemen, there is one personal, one vast felicity, which no man 
can share with him. It was the daily beauty, and towering and matchless 
glory of his life which enabled him to create his country, and at the same 
time, secure an undying love and regard from the whole American people. 
" The first in the hearts of his countrymen !" Yes, first ! He has our first 
and most fervent love. Undoubtedly there were brave and wise and good 
men, before his day, in every colony. But the American nation, as a nation, 
I do not reckon to have begun before 1774. And the first love of that 
Young America was Washington. The first word she lisped was his name. 
Her earliest breath spoke it. It still is her proud ejaculation ; and it will 
be the last gasp of her expiring life ! Yes ; others of our great men have 
been appreciated — many admired by all ; — but him we love ; him we all 



A TAILOR'S POEM ON EVENING. 



445 



love. About and around him we call up no dissentient and discordant 
and dissatisfied elements — no sectional prejudice nor bias— no party, no 
creed, no dogma of politics. None of these shall assail him. Yes ; when 
the storm of battle blows darkest and rages highest, the memory of Wash- 
ington shall nerve every American arm, and cheer every American heart. 
It shall relume that Promethean fire, that sublime flame,of patriotism, that 
devoted love of country which his words have commended, which his 
example has consecrated : 

" Where may the wearied eye repose, 

When gazing on the great ; 
Where neither guilty glory glows 

Nor despicable state ? 
Yes — one — the first, the last, the best. 
The Cincinnatus of the West, 

Whom envy dared not hate, 
Bequeathed the name of Washington, 
To make man blush there was but one.' 1 



A TAILOB'S POEM ON EVENING, 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 




?AY hath put on his jacket, and 
around 
His burning bosom buttoned it with 
stars. 
Here will I lay me on the velvet grass, 
That is like padding to earth's meagre 
ribs, 
And hold communion with the things about 

me. 
Ah me ! how lovely is the golden braid 
That binds the skirt of night's descending 

robe ! 
The thin leaves, quivering on their silken 

threads, 
.Do make a music like to rustling satin, 
As the light breezes smooth their downy nap. 

Ha ! what is this that rises to my touch, 
So like a cushion ? Can it be a cabbage ? 
It is, it is that deeply injured flower, 
Which boys do flout us with ; — but yet I love 
thee, 



Thou giant rose, wrapped in a green surtout, 
Doubtless in Eden thou didst blush as bright 
As these, thy puny brethren ; and thy breath 
Sweetened the fragrance of her spicy air ; 
But now thou seemest like a bankrupt beau, 
Stripped of his gaudy hues and essences, 
And growing portly in his sober garments. 

Is that a swan that rides upon the water? 

no, it is that other gentle bird, 
Which is the patron of our noble calling. 

1 well remember, in my early years, 
When these young hands first closed upon a 



I have a scar upon my thimble finger, 
Which chronicles the hour of young ambition. 
My father was a tailor, and his father, 
And my sire's grandsire, all of them were 

tailors ; 
They had an ancient goose, — it was an heir- 
loom 
From some remoter tailor of our race. 



446 



THE PELICAN. 



It happened I did see it on a time 

When none was near, and I did deal with it, 

And it did burn me, — 0, most fearfully ! 

It is a joy to straighten out one's limbs, 
And leap elastic from the level counter, 
Leaving the petty grievances of earth, 
.The breaking thread, the din of clashing 

shears, 
And all the needles that do wound the spirit. 
For such a pensive hour of soothing silence, 
Kind Nature, shuffling in her loose undress, 



Lays bare her shady bosom ; — I can feel 
With all around me ; — I can hail the flowers 
That spring earth's mantle, — and yon quiet 

bird, 
That rides the stream, is to me as a brother. 
The vulgar know not all the hidden pockets, 
Where Nature stows away her loveliness. 
But this unnatural posture of the legs 
Cramps my extended calves, and I must go 
Where I can coil them in their wonted 

fashion. 



THE PELICAN. 



JAMES MONTGOMERY. 




T early dawn I marked them in the 
sky, 
Catching the morning colors on their 

plumes ; 
Not in voluptuous pastime reveling 

there, 
Among the rosy clouds, while orient 
heaven 
Flamed like the opening gates of Paradise, 
Whence issued forth the angel of the sun, 
And gladdened nature with returning day : 
— Eager for food, their searching eyes they 

fixed 
On ocean's unrolled volume, from a height 
That brought immensity within their scope ; 
Yet with such power of vision looked they 

down, 
As though they watched the shell-fish slowly 

gliding 
O'er sunken rocks, or climbing trees of coral. 
On indefatigable wing upheld, 
Breath, pulse, existence, seemed suspended 

in them : 
They were as pictures painted on the sky ; 
Till suddenly, aslant, away they shot, 
Like meteors changed from stars to gleams of 

lightning, 
And struck upon the deep, where, in wild 

play, 
Their quarry floundered, unsuspecting harm ; 



With terrible voracity, they plunged 

Their heads among the affrighted shoals, and 

beat 
A tempest on the surges with their wings, 
Till flashing clouds of foam and spray con- 
cealed them. 
Nimbly they seized and secreted their prey, 
Alive and wriggling in the elastic net ; 
Which Nature hung beneath their grasping 

beaks, 
Till, swollen with captures, the unwieldy 

burden 
Clogged their slow flight, as heavily to land 
These mighty hunters of the deep returned. 
There on the cragged cliffs they perched at 

ease, 
Gorging their helpless victims one by one ; 
Then, full and weary, side by side they slept, 
Till evening roused them to the chase again. 

Love found that lonely couple on their isle, 
And soon surrounded them with blithe com- 
panions. 
The noble birds, with skill spontaneous,. 

framed 
A nest of reeds among the giant-grass, 
That waved in lights and shadows o'er the= 

soil. 
There, in sweet thraldom, yet unweening 
why, 



THE PELICAN. 



447 



The patient dam, who ne'er till now had 

known 
Parental instinct, brooded o'er her eggs, 
Long ere she found the curious secret out, 
That life was hatching in their brittle shells. 
Then, from a wild rapacious bird of prey, 
Tamed by the kindly process, she became 
That gentlest of all living things, — a mother; 
Gentlest while yearning o'er her naked 

young ; 
Fiercest when stirred by anger to defend 

them. 



While the plump nestlings throbbed against 

his heart, 
The tenderness that makes the vulture mild; 
Yea, half unwillingly his post resigned, 
When, home-sick with the absence of an 

hour, 
She hurried back, and drove him from her 

seat 
With pecking bill and cry of fond distress, 
Answered by him with murmurs of delight, 
Whose gutturals harsh, to her were love'a 

own music. 




lier mate himself the softening power con- 
fessed, 
Forgot his sloth, restrained his appetite, 
And ranged the sky and fished the stream 

for her, 
Or, when o'erwearied Nature forced her off 
To shake her torpid feathers in the breeze, 
And bathe her bosom in the cooling flood, 
He took her place, and felt through every 
nerve, 



Then, settling down, like foam upon the wave. 
White, flickering, effervescent, soon subsiding, 
Her ruffled pinions smoothly she composed ; 
And, while beneath the comfort of her wings, 
Her crowded progeny quite filled the nest, 
The halcyon sleeps not sounder, when the 

wind 
Is breathless, and the sea without a curl, 
— Nor dreams the halcyon of serener days. 
Or nights more beautiful with silent stars, 



448 



A TIME OF UNEXAMPLED PROSPERITY. 



Than, in that hour, the mother pelican, 
When the warm tumults of affection sunk 
Into calm sleep, and dreams of what they 

were, 
Dreams more delicious than reality. 
— He sentinel beside her stood, and watched 
With jealous eye the raven in the clouds, 
And the rank sea-mews wheeling round the 

cliffs. 
Woe to the reptile then that ventured nigh ! 



The snap of his tremendous bill was like 
Death's scythe, down-cutting everything it 

struck. 
The heedless lizard, in his gambols, peeped 
Upon the guarded nest, from out the flowers, 
But paid the instant forfeit of his life ; 
Nor could the serpent's subtlety elude 
Capture, when gliding by, nor in defence 
Might his malignant fangs and venom save 

him. 



A TIME OF UNEXAMPLED PROSPERITY. 



WASHINGTON IRVING. 



[N the course of a voyage from England, I once fell in with a convoy # of 
merchant ships, bound for the "West Indies. The weather was 
uncommonly bland; and the ships vied with each other in spreading 
sail to catch a light, favorable breeze, until their hulls were almost 
| hidden beneath a cloud of canvass. The breeze went down with the 
I sun, and his last yellow rays shone upon a thousand sails, idly flap- 
ping against the masts. 

I exulted in the beauty of the scene, and augured a prosperous voyage; 
but the veteran master of the ship shook his head, and pronounced this 
halcyon calm a "weather-breeder." And so it proved. A storm burst 
forth in the night; the sea roared and raged; and when the day broke, I 
beheld the gallant convoy scattered in every direction ; some dismasted, 
others scudding under bare poles, and many firing signals of distress. 

I have since been occasionally reminded of this scene by those calm, 
sunny seasons in the commercial world, which are known by the name of 
"times of unexampled prosperity." They are the sure weather-breeders of 
traffic. Every now and then the world is visited by one of these delusive 
seasons, when the "credit system," as it is called, expands to full luxu- 
riance: everybody trusts everybody; a bad debt is a thing unheard of; tb« 
broad way to certain and sudden wealth lies plain and open; and men are 
tempted to dash forward boldly, from the facility of borrowing. 

Promissory notes, interchanged between scheming individuals, are 
liberally discounted at the banks, which become so many mints to coin 
words into cash; and as the supply of words is inexhaustible, it may 
readily be supposed what a vast amount of promissory capital is soon in 
circulation. Everyone now talks in thousands; nothing is heard but 



A TIME OF UNEXAMPLED PROSPERITY. 449 

gigantic operations in trade; great purchases and sales of real property, and 
immense sums made at every transfer. All, to be sure, as yet exists in 
promise; but the believer in promises calculates the aggregate as solid 
capital, and falls back in amazement at the amount of public wealth, the 
" unexampled state of public prosperity !" 

Now is the time for speculative and dreaming or designing men. They 
relate their dreams and projects to the ignorant and credulous, dazzle them 
with golden visions, and set them maddening after shadows. The example 
of one stimulates another ; speculation rises on speculation ; bubble rises 
on bubble ; everyone helps with his breath to swell the windy superstruc- 
ture, and admires and wonders at the magnitude of the inflation he has 
contributed to produce. 

Speculation is the romance of trade, and casts contempt upon all its 
sober realities. It renders the stock-jobber a magician, and the exchange 
a region of enchantment. It elevates the merchant into a kind of knight- 
errant, or rather a commercial Quixote. The slow but sure gains of snug 
percentage become despicable in his eyes: no "operation" is thought 
worthy of attention that does not double or treble the investment. No 
business is worth following that does not promise an immense fortune. As 
he sits musing over his ledger, with pen behind his ear, he is like La 
Mancha's hero, in his study, dreaming over his books of chivalry. His 
dusty counting-house fades before his eyes, or changes into a Spanish mine ; 
he gropes after diamonds, or dives after pearls. The subterranean garden 
of Aladdin is nothing to the realms of wealth that break upon his imagina- 
tion. 

Could this delusion always last, the life of a merchant would indeed 
be a golden dream; but it is as short as it is brilliant. Let but a doubt 
enter, and the "season of unexampled prosperity" is at an end. The 
coinage of words is suddenly curtailed; the promissory capital begins to 
vanish into smoke; a panic succeeds, and the whole superstructure, built 
upon credit, and reared by speculation, crumbles to the ground, leaving 
scarce a wreck behind. 

"It is such stuff as dreams are made of." When a man of business, 
therefore, hears on every side rumors of fortunes suddenly acquired; when 
he finds banks liberal, and brokers busy ; when he sees adventurers flush of 
paper capital, and full of scheme and enterprise ; when he perceives a 
greater disposition to buy than to sell ; when trade overflows its accustomed 
channels, and deluges the country; when he hears of new regions of com- 
mercial adventure ; of distant marts and distant mines swallowing merchan- 
dise, and disgorging gold; when he finds joint stock companies of all kinds 
29 



450 



WHEN. 



forming; railroads, canals, and locomotive-engines springing up on every 
side; when idlers suddenly become men of business, and dash into the game 
of commerce as the gambler would into the hazards of the faro-table ; when 
he beholds the streets glittering with new equipages, palaces conjured up 
by the magic of speculation ; tradesmen flushed with sudden success, and 
vying with each other in ostentatious expense; in a word, when he hears 
the whole community joining in the theme of ''unexampled prosperity," let 
him look upon the whole as a "weather-breeder," and prepare for the 
impending storm. 



THE PATIENT STORK. 



LORD THURLOW. 




MELANCHOLY bird, the long, long 
day 
Thou standest by the margin of 

the pool, 
And, taught by God, dost thy 
whole being school, 
To patience, which all evil can allay. 
God has appointed thee the fish thy 
prey, 
And given thyself a lesson to the fool, 



Unthrifty, to submit to moral rule, 
And his unthinking course by thee to weigh, 

There need not schools nor the professor's 
chair, 
Though these be good, true wisdom to impart : 

He who has not enough for these to spare, 
Of time or gold, may yet amend his heart, 

And teach his soul by brooks and rivers 
fair, — 
Nature is always wise in every part. 



WHEN. 



SUSAN COOLIDGE. 



ra^F I were told that I must die to-morrow, 
piP That the next sun 

fwf "Which sinks should bear me past all 
*f j,f fear and sorrow 

For any one, 
I All the fight fought, all the short jour- 
ney through, 

What should I do ? 

T do not think that I should shrink or falter, 

But just go on, 
Doing my work, nor change nor seek to alter 

Aught that is gone ; 



But rise and move and love and smile and 
pray 

For one more day. 

And, lying down at night for a last sleeping, 

Say in that ear 
Which hearkens ever: "Lord, within Thy 
keeping 

How should I fear ? 
And when to-morrow brings Thee nearer 
still 

Do Thou Thy will." 




PATIENCE. 



THERE IS NO DEATH. 



451 



I might not sleep for awe ; but peaceful, 
tender, 

My soul would lie 
All the night long ; and when the morning 
splendor 

Flushed o'er the sky, 
I think that I could smile — could calmly say, 
"It is His day." 

But if a wondrous hand from the blue yonder 

Held out a scroll, 
On which my life was writ, and I with wonder 

Beheld unroll 
To a long century's end its mystic clue, 

What should I do ? 

What could I do, oh ! blessed Guide and 
Master, 

Other than this ; 
Still to go on as now, not slower, faster, 

Nor fear to miss 
The road, although so very long it be, 

While led by Thee? 



Step after step, feeling Thee close beside me, 

Although unseen, 
Through thorns, through flowers, whether the 
tempest hide Thee 

Or heavens serene, 
Assured Thy faithfulness cannot betray, 

Thy love decay. 

I may not know ; my God, no hand re- 
vealeth 

Thy counsels wise ; 
Along the path a deepening shadow stealeth, 

No voice replies 
To all my questioning thought, the time to 
tell, 

And it is well. 

Let me keep on, abiding and unfearing 

Thy will always, 
Through a long century's ripening fruition 

Or a short day's, 
Thou canst not come too soon ; and I cari 
wait 

If Thou come late. 



THERE 18 NO DEATH. 



*4^ . 



LORD LYTTON. 



StlMgHERE is no death ! The stars go down 
Mil To rise upon some fairer shore : 

And bright in Heaven's jewelled 
crown 
They shine forevermore. 

There is no death ! The dust we tread 
Shall change beneath the summer showers 

To golden grain or mellowed fruit, 
Or rainbow-tinted flowers, 

The granite rocks disorganize, 

And feed the hungry moss they bear ; 

The forest leaves drink daily life, 
From out the viewless air. 

There is no death ! The leaves may fall, 
And flowers may fade and pass away ; 



They only wait through wintry hours, 
The coming of the May. 

There is no death ! An angel form 
Walks o'er the earth with silent tread ; 

He bears our best loved things away ; 
And then we call them "dead." 

He leaves our hearts all desolate, 

He plucks our fairest, sweetest flowers ; 

Transplanted into bliss, they now 
Adorn immortal bowers. 

The bird-like voice, whose joyous tones, 
Made glad these scenes of sin and strife 

Sings now an everlasting song, 
Around the tree of life. 



452 



PAYING HER WAY 



Where'er he sees a smile too bright, 
Or heart too pure for taint and vice, 

He beara it to that world of light, 
To dwell in Paradise. 

Born unto that undying life, 

They leave us but to come again ; 



With joy we welcome them the same, 
Except their sin and pain. 

And ever near us, though unseen, 
The dear immortal spirits tread; 

For all the boundless universe 
Is life — there are no dead. 




PA YIN G HER WA Y. 



HjfjijlHAT has my darling been doing 
to-day, 

rTo pay for her washing and mend- 
How can she manage to keep out of 
debt 
For so much caressing and tend- 
ing ? 

How can I wait till the years shall have flown 
And the hands have grown larger and 
stronger ? 



Who will be able the interest to pay, 
If the debt runs many years longer? 

Dear little feet ! How they fly to my side 

White arms my neck are caressing; 
Sweetest of kisses are laid on my cheek ; 

Fair head my shoulder is pressing. 
Nothing at all from my darling is due — 

From evil may angels defend her — 
The debt is discharged as fast as 'tis made, 

For love is a legal tender. 



THE PROGRESS OF HUMANITY. 453 



THE PROGRESS OF HUMANITY. 




CHARLES SUMNER. 



jET us, then ; be of good cheer. From the great law of progress we 
may derive at once our duties and our encouragements. Humanity 
has ever advanced, urged by the instincts and necessities implanted 
by God, — thwarted sometimes by obstacles which have caused it for 
a time — a moment onlv, in the immensity of ages — to deviate from 
its true line, or to seem to retreat, — but still ever onward. 

Amidst the disappointments which may attend individual exertions, 
amidst the universal agitations which now surround us, let us recognize 
this law, confident that whatever is just, whatever is humane, whatever is 
good, whatever is true, according to an immutable ordinance of Provi- 
dence, in the golden light of the future, must prevail. With this faith, let 
us place our hands, as those of little children, in the great hand of God. 
He will ever guide and sustain us — through pains and perils, it may be — 
in the path of progress. 

In the recognition of this law, there are motives to beneficent activity, 
which shall endure to the last syllable of life. Let the young embrace it : 
they shall find in it an everliving spring. Let the old cherish it still : 
they shall derive from it fresh encouragement. It shall give to all, both 
old and young, a new appreciation of their existence, a new sentiment of 
their force, a new revelation of their destiny. 

Be it, then, our duty and our encouragement to live and to labor, 
ever mindful of the future. But let us not forget the past. All ages 
have lived and labored for us. From one has come art, from another 
jurisprudence, from another the compass, from another the printing-press; 
from all have proceeded priceless lessons of truth and virtue. The earliest 
and most distant times are not without a present influence on our daily 
lives. The mighty stream of progress, though fed by many tributary 
waters and hidden springs, derives something of its force from the earliest 
currents which leap and sparkle in the distant mountain recesses, over pre- 
cipices, among rapids, and beneath the shade of the primeval forest. 

Nor should we be too impatient to witness the fulfilment of our aspi- 
rations. The daily increasing rapidity of discovery and improvement, and 
the daily multiplying efforts of beneficence, in later years outstripping the 
imaginations of the most sanguine, furnish well-grounded assurance that 
the advance of man will be with a constantly accelerating speed. The 
extending intercourse among the nations of the earth, and anions all the 



454 



HIDE AND SEEK. 



children of the human family, gives new promise of the complete diffusion 
of truth, penetrating the most distant places, chasing away the darkness of 
night, and exposing the hideous forms of slavery, of war, of wrong, which 
must be hated as soon as they are clearly seen. 

Cultivate, then, a just moderation. Learn to reconcile order with 
change, stability with progress. This is a wise conservatism ; this is a 
wise reform. Eightly understanding these terms, who would not be a 
conservative ? who would not be a reformer ? — a conservative of all that 
is good, a reformer of all that is evil; a conservative of knowledge, a 
reformer of ignorance ; a conservative of truths and principles whose seat 
is the bosom of God, a reformer of laws and institutions which are but the 
wicked or imperfect work of man ; a conservative of that divine order 
which is found only in movement, a reformer of those early wrongs and 
abuses which spring from a violation of the great law of human progress. 
Blending these two characters in one, let us seek to be, at the same time, 
Reforming Conservatives, and Conservative Reformers. 



HIDE AND SEEK 



flUflJiJIDE and seek ! Two children at play 
On a sunshiny holiday — 
" Where is the treasure hidden, I 



JULIA GODDARD. 




pray ! 
-am I near it or far away ? • 
Hot or cold ?" asks little Nell, 
With her flaxen hair all tangled and 
wild, 
And her voice as clear as a fairy bell 
That the fairies ring at eventide — 
Scrambling under table and chair, 
Peeping into the cupboards wide, 
Till a joyous voice rings through the air — 
" ho ! a very good place to hide !" 
And little Nell, creeping along the ground, 
Murmurs in triumph, " I've found, I've 
found !" 

Hide and seek ! Not children now — 
Life's noontide sun hath kissed each brow, 
Nell's turn to hide the treasure to-day ; 
Bo safely she thinks it hidden away, 



That she fears her lover cannot find it. 
Say, shall she help him ? Her eyes, so shy, 
Half tell the secret, and half deny ; 
And the green leaves rustle with laughter 

sweet, 
And the little birds twitter, " Oh, foolish 

lover, 
Has love bewitched and blinded thine eyes — 
So that the truth thou canst not discover ?" 
Then the sun gleams out, all golden and 

bright, 
And sends through the wood-path a clearer 

light; 
See the lover raises his eyes from the ground, 
And reads in Nell's face that the treasure 

is found. 



What are the angels seeking for 
Through the world in the darksome night ? 
A treasure that earth has stolen away, 
And hidden 'midst flowers for many a day, 



THE LION'S RIDE. 



455 



Hidden through sunshine, through storm, 

through blight, 
Till it wasted and grew to a form so slight 
And worn, that scarce in the features white 
Gould one trace likeness to gladsome Nell. 
But the angels knew her as there she lay, 
All quietly sleeping, and bore her away, 
Up to the city, jasper-walled — 
Up t: the :::y with golden street — 



Up to the city, like crystal clear, 

Where the pure and the sinless meet ; 
And through costly pearl-gates that opened 

wide, 
They bore the treasure earth tried to hide. 
And weeping mortals listened with awe 
To the silver echo that smote the skies, 
As "Found?" rang forth from Paradise. 



THE LION'S BIDE. 



FERDINAND FEEILIGEATH. 



|:y-HE lion is the desert's king; through 

his domain so wide 
* z ^f Right swiftly and right royally this 
l'i night he means to ride. 

^° By the sedgy brink, where the wild 

herds drink, close couches the grim 
y chief; 

The trembling sycamore above whis- 
r rr; with every leaf. 

At evening, on the Table Mount, wLtz ye 

can see no more 
The changeful play of signals gay ; when the 

gloom is speckled o'er 
With kraal fires ; when the Caffre wends 

home through the lone karroo ; 
When the boshbok in the thicket sleeps, and 

by the stream the gnu ; 

Then bend your gaze across the waste — What 

see ye ? The giraffe, 
Majestic, stalks toward the lagoon, the turbid 

lymph to quaff: 
With outstretched neck and tongue adust, 

he kneels him down to cool 
His hot thirst with a welcome draught from 

the foul and brackish pool. 

A rustling sound — a roar — a bound — the 

lion sits astride 
Upon his giant courser's back. Did ever 

king so ride ° 
Had ever a steed so rare, caparisons of 

state 



To match the dappled skin whereon that 
rider sits elate ? 

In the muscles of the neck his teeth are 

plunged with ravenous greed ; 
His tawny mane is tossing round the withers 

of the steed. 
Up leaping with a hollow yell of anguish 

and surprise, 
Away, away, in wild dismay, the camel 

leopard flies. 

His feet have wings ; see how he springs 

across the moonlit plain ! 
As from their sockets they would burst, his 

glaring eyeballs strain ; 
In thick black streams of purling blood, full 

fast his life is fleeting ; 
The stillness of the desert hears his heart's 

tumultuous beating. 

Like the cloud that, through the wilderness, 
the path of Israel traced — 

Like an airy phantom, dull and wan, a spirit 
of the waste — 

From the sandy sea uprising, as the water- 
spout from the ocean. 

A whirling cloud of dust keeps pace with the 
courser's fiery motion. 

Croaking companion of their flight, the vol- 



4:56 



DIES IRjE. 



Below the terror of the fold, the panther 

fierce and sly, 
And hyenas foul, round graves that prowl, 

join in the horrid race ; 
By the foot-prints wet with gore and sweat, 

their monarch's course they trace. 

They see him on his living throne, and quake 

with fear, the while 
With claws of steel he tears piecemeal his 

cushion's painted pile. 
On ! on ! no pause, no rest, giraffe, while life 

and strength remain ! 



The steed by such a rider backed, may madly 
plunge in vain. 

Reeling upon the desert's verge, he falls, and 

breathes his last ; 
The courser, strained with dust and foam, is 

the rider's fell repast. 
O'er Madagascar, eastward far, a faint flush 

is descried : 
Thus nightly, o'er his broad domain, the 

king of beasts doth ride. 



DIES IRJB. 



THOMAS OF CELANO, A. D., 1208. 



!>AY of wrath ! that day of burning, 
Seer and sibyl speak concerning, 
All the world to ashes turning ! 

Oh, what fear shall it engender, 
When the Judge shall come in splen- 
dor, 
Strict to mark and just to render ! 

Trumpet, scattering sounds of wonder, 
Rending sepulchres asunder, 
Shall resistless summons thunder. 

All aghast then Death shall shiver, 
And great Nature's frame shall quiver, 
When the graves their dead deliver. 

Book, where actions are recorded, 

All the ages have afforded, 

Shall be brought and dooms awarded. 

Wh«Q shall sit the Judge unerring, 
He'll unfold all here occurring, 
No just vengeance then deferring. 

What shall J say, that time pending? 
Ask what advocate's befriending, 
When the just man needs defending ? 



Translated by Dr. Abraham Coles. 



Think, Jesus, for what reason 

Thou didst bear earth's spite and treason, 

Nor me lose in that dread season ! 

Seeking me Thy worn feet hasted ; 
On the cross Thy soul death tasted, — 
Let such travail not be wasted ! 

Righteous Judge of retribution ! 
Make me gift of absolution 
Ere that day of execution ! 

Culprit-like, I plead, heart-broken, 
On my cheek shame's crimson token : 
Let the pardoning word be spoken ! 

Thou, who Mary gav'st remission, 
Heard'st the dying thief's petition, 
Cheer'st with hope my lost condition. 

Though my prayers be void of merit, 
What is needful, Thou confer it, 
Lest I endless fire inherit ! 

Be then, Lord, my place decided 
With Thy sheep, from goats divided, 
Kindly to Thy right hand guided! 



MANIFEST DESTINY. 



45? 



When the accursed away are driven, 


Care for me when I am dying ! 


To eternal burnings given, 

Call me with the blest to heaven ! 


Day of tears and late repentance ! 
Man shall rise to hear his sentence : 


I beseech Thee, prostrate lying, 


Him, the child of guilt and error, 


Heart as ashes, contrite, sighing, 


Spare, Lord, in that hour of terror ! 



MANIFEST DESTINY. 




JOSH BILLINGS. 



A.NIFEST destiny iz the science ov going tew bust, or enny othei 
place before yu git thare. I may be rong in this centiment, but 
that iz the way it strikes me ; and i am so put together that when 
enny thing strikes me i immejiately strike back. Manifest 
destiny mite perhaps be blocked out agin as the condishun that man 
and things find themselfs in with a ring in their nozes and sumboddy 
hold ov the ring. I may be rong agin, but if i am, awl i have got tew sa 
iz, i don't kno it, and what a man don't kno ain't no damage tew enny boddy 
else. The tru way that manifess destiny had better be sot down iz, the 
exact distance that a frog kan jump down hill with a striped snake after him ; 
i don't kno but i may be rong onst more, but if the frog don't git ketched 
the destiny iz jist what he iz a looking for. 

When a man falls into the bottom ov a well and makes up hiz minde 
tew stay thare, that ain't manifess destiny enny more than having yure 
hair cut short iz ; but if he almoste gits out and then falls down in agin 
16 foot deeper and brakes off hiz neck twice in the same plase and dies and 
iz buried thare at low water, that iz manifess destiny on the square. 
Standing behind a cow in fly time and gitting kicked twice at one time, 
must feel a good deal like manifess destiny. Being about 10 seckunds tew 
late tew git an express train, and then chasing the train with yure wife, 
and an umbreller in yure hands, in a hot day, and not getting az near tew 
the train az you waz when started, looks a leetle like manifess destiny 
on a rale rode trak. Going into a tempranse house and calling for a little 
old Bourbon on ice, and being told in a mild way that " the Bourbon iz jist 
out, but they hav got sum gin that cost 72 cents a gallon in Paris,'* 
sounds tew me like the manifess destiny ov moste tempranse houses. 

Mi dear reader, don't beleave in manifess destiny until yu see it. 
Thare is such a thing az manifess destiny, but when it occurs it iz like the 
number ov rings on the rakoon's tale, ov no great consequense onla for 



453 



BILL AND JOE. 



ornament. Man wan't made for a machine, if he waz, it was a locomotiff 
machine, and manifess destiny must git oph from the trak when the bell 
rings or git knocked higher than the price ov gold. Manifess destiny iz a 
disseaze, but it iz eazy tew heal ; i have seen it in its wust stages cured bi 
sawing a cord ov dri hickory wood, i thought i had it onse, it broke out 
in the shape ov poetry ; i sent a speciment ov the disseaze tew a magazine, 
the magazine man wrote me next day az follers, 

u Dear Sur: Yu may be a phule, but you are no poeck. Yures, in 
haste. " 



BILL AND JOE. 



O. W. HOLMES. 



jJ&L 



jjOME, dear old comrade, you and I 
Will steal an hour from days gone 

by- 
The shining days when life was new, 
And all was bright as morning dew, 
The lusty days of long ago, 
When you were Bill and I was Joe. 



Your name may flaunt a titled trail, 
Proud as a cockerel's rainbow tail ; 
And mine as brief appendix wear 
As Tarn O'Shanter's luckless mare ; 
To-day, old friend, remember still 
That I am Joe and you are Bill. 

You've won the great world's envied prize, 

And grand you look in people's eyes, 

With HON. and LL.D., 

In big brave letters, fair to see — 

Your fist, old fellow ! off they go ! — 

How are you, Bill? How are you, Joe? 

You've worn the judge's ermine robe; 
You've taught your name to half the globe 
You've sung mankind a deathless strain ; 
You've made the dead past live again ; 
The world may call you what it will, 
But you and I are Joe and Bill. 

The chaffing young folks stare and say, 
" See those old buffers, bent and gray ; 



They talk like fellows in their teens ! 
Mad, poor old boys ! That's what 

means " — 
And shake their heads ; they little know 
The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe — 

How Bill forgets his hour of pride, 
While Joe sits smiling at his side ; 
How Joe, in spite of time's disguise, 
Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes — 
Those calm, stern eyes that melt and fill 
As Joe looks fondly up at Bill. 

Ah, pensive scholar ! what is fame ? 

A fitful tongue of leaping flame ; 

A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust, 

That lifts a pinch of mortal dust : 

A few swift years, and who can show 

Which dust was Bill, and which was Joe ? 

The weary idol takes his stand, 

Holds out his bruised and aching hand, 

While gaping thousands come and go — 

How vain it seems, this empty show ! — 

Till all at once his pulses thrill : 

'Tis poor old Joe's " God bless you, Bill ! " 

And shall we breathe in happier spheres 
The names that pleased our mortal ears, — 
In some sweet lull of harp and song, 
For earth-born spirits none too long, — 
Just whispering of the world below, 
Where this was Bill, and that was Joe? 



MAUD MULLER. 



459 



No matter ; while our home is here 
No sounding name is half so dear ; 
When fades at length our lingering day, 



Who cares what pompous tombstones say ? 
Read on the hearts that love us still, 
Hicjacet Joe. Hicjacet Bill. 




MAUD MULLER. 




J. G. WHITTIER. 



AUD Muller, on a summer's day, 
Raked the meadow sweet with hay. 

Beneath her torn hat glowed the 
wealth 
Of simple beauty and rustic health. 

Singing, she wrought, and her mer- 
ry glee 
The mock-bird echoed from his tree. 



But, when she glanced to the far off town, 
White from its hill-slope looking down, 

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest 
And a nameless longing filled her breast — 

A wish, that she hardly dared to own, 
For something better than she had known. 

The Judge rode slowly down the lane, 
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. 



460 



MAUD MULLEK. 



He drew his bridle in the shade 

Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid, 

And ask a draught from the spring that 

flowed 
Through the meadow across the road. 

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, 
And filled for him her small tin cup, 

And blushed as she gave it, looking down 
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown, 

*' Thanks !" said the Judge, " a sweeter 

draught 
Prom a fairer hand was never quaffed." 

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, 
Of the singing birds and the humming bees ; 

Then talked of the haying, and wondered 

whether 
The cloud in the west would bring foul 

weather. 

And Maud forgot her briar-torn gown, 
And her graceful ankles bare and brown ; 

And listened, while a pleased surprise 
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. 

At last, like one who for delay 
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. 

Maud Muller looked and sighed : " Ah me ! 
That I the Judge's bride might be ! 

" He would dress me up in silks so fine, 
And praise and toast me at his wine. 

" My father should wear a broadcloth coat; 
My brother should sail a painted boat. 

" I'd dress my mother so grand and gay, 
And the baby should have a new toy each 



" And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the 

poor, 
And all should bless me who left our door." 

The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, 
And saw Maud Muller standing still. 



" A form more fair, a face more sweet, 
Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. 

" And her modest answer and graceful air 
Show her wise and good as she is fair. 

" Would she were mine, and I to-day, 
Like her, a harvester of hay : 

" No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, 
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, 

" But low of cattle, and song of birds, 
And health, and quiet, and loving words." 

But he thought of his sisters, proud and. cold, 
And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. 

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, 
And Maud was left in the field alone. 

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, 
"When he hummed in court an old love-tune ; 

And the young girl mused beside the well, 
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. 

He wedded a wife of richest dower, 
Who lived for fashion, as he for power. 

Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, 
He watched a picture come and go : 

And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes 
Looked out in their innocent surprise. 

Oft when the wine in his glass was red, 
He longed for the wayside well instead ; 

And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms, 
To dream of meadows and clover-blooms. 

And the proud man sighed, with a secret 

pain, 
" Ah, that I were free again ! 

" Free as when I rode that day, 

Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay." 

She wedded a man unlearned and poor, 
And many children played round her door. 

But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain, 
Left their traces on heart and brain. 



KATE KETCHEM. 



461 



And oft, when the summer sun shone hot 
On the new mown hay in the meadow lot, 

And she heard the little spring brook fall 
Over the roadside, through the wall, 

In the shade of the apple-tree again 
She saw a rider draw his rein, 

« And gazing down with timid grace, 
She felt his pleased eyes read her face. 

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls 
Stretched away into stately halls ; 

The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, 
The tallow candle an astral burned ; 

And for him who sat by the chimney lug, 
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug,- 



A manly form at her side she saw, 
And joy was duty and love was law. 

Then he took up her burden of life again, 
Saying only, " It might have been." 

Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, 

For rich repiner and household drudge ! 

God pity them both ! and pity us all, 
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall ; 

For of all sad words of tongue or pen, 

The saddest are these : "It might have been !" 

Ah, well ! for us all some sweet hope lies 
Deeply buried from human eyes ; 

And, in the hereafter, angels may 
Roll the stone from its grave away ! 



KATE KETCHEM. 



PHCEBE CAEY. 




l^^sATE Ketchem, on a winter's night, 
Went to a party, dressed in white. 

Her chignon in a net of gold 

Was about as large as they ever sold. 

Gayly she went because her " pap " 
Was supposed to be a rich old chap. 

But when by chance her glances fell 
On a friend who had lately married well, 

Her spirits sunk, and a vague unrest 
And a nameless longing filled her breast — 

A wish she wouldn't have had made known, 
To have an establishment of her own. 

Tom Fudge came slowly through the throng, 
With chestnut hair, worn pretty long. 

He saw Kate Ketchem in the crowd, 
And, knowing her slightly, stopped and 
bowed. 

Then asked her to give him a single flower, 
Saying he'd think it a priceless dower. 



Out from those with which she was decked 
She took the poorest she could select, 

And blushed as she gave it, looking down 
To call attention to her gown. 

" Thanks," said Fudge, and he thought how 

dear 
Flowers must be at this time of year. 

Then several charming remarks he made, 
Asked if she sang, or danced, or played ; 

And being exhausted, inquired whether 
She thought it was going to be pleasant 
weather. 

And Kate displayed her jewelry, 
And dropped her lashes becomingly ; 

And listened with no attempt to disguise 
The admiration in her eyes. 

At last, like one who has nothing to say, 
He turned around and walked away. 



462 



KATE KETCHEM. 



Kate Ketchem smiled, and said " You bet 
I'll catch that Fudge and his money yet. 

" He's rich enough to keep me in clothes, 
And I think I could manage him if I chose. 

" He could aid my father as well as not, 
And buy my brother a splendid yacht. 

" My mother for money should never fret, 
And all that it cried for the baby should get ; 

" And after that, with what he could spare, 
I'd make a show at a charity fair." 

Tom Fudge looked back as he crossed the sill, 
And saw Kate Ketchem standing still. 

" A girl more suited to my mind 
It isn't an easy thing to find ; 

" And every thing that she has to wear 
Proves her as rich as she is fair. 

" Would she were mine, and that I to-day 
Had the old man's cash my debts to pay ; 

" No creditors with a long account, 

No tradesmen waiting 'that little amount;' 

41 But all my scores paid up when due 
By a father as rich as any Jew !" 

But he thought of her brother, not worth a 

straw, 
And her mother, that would be his, in law ; 

So, undecided, he walked along, 

And Kate was left alone in the throng. 

But a lawyer smiled, whom he sought by 

stealth, 
To ascertain old Ketchem's wealth ; 

And as for Kate, she schemed and planned 
Till one of the dancers claimed her hand. 

He married her for her father's cash — 
She married him to cut a dash. 

But as to paying his debts, do you know 
The father couldn't see it so ; 



And at hints for help Kate's hazel eyes 
Looked out in their innocent surprise 

And when Tom thought of the way he had 

wed, 
He longed for a single life instead, 

And closed his eyes in a sulky mood, 
Regretting the days of his bachelorhood ; 

And said in a sort of reckless vein, 
" I'd like to see her catch me again, 

" If I were free as on that night 

I saw Kate Ketchem dressed in white I" 



She wedded him to be rich and gay ; 
But husband and children didn't pay. 

He wasn't the prize she hoped to draw, 
And wouldn't live with his mother-in-law- 

And oft when she had to coax and pout 
In order to get him to take her out, 

She thought how very attentive and bright 
He seemed at the party that winter's night. 

Of his laugh, as soft as a breeze of the south v 
('Twas now on the other side of his mouth:) 

How he praised her dress and gems in his. 

talk, 
As he took a careful account of stock. 

Sometimes she hated the very walls — 
Hated her friends, her dinners, and calls : 

Till her weak affections, to hatred turned, 
Like a dying tallow candle burned. 

And for him who sat there, her peace to mar* 
Smoking his everlasting segar — 

He wasn't the man she thought she saw, 
And grief was duty, and hate was law. 

So she took up her burden with a groan,. 
Saying only, " I might have known !" 

Alas for Kate ! and alas for Fudge ! 
Though I do not owe them any grudge; 



THE INDIAN TO THE SETTLER. 



463 



And alas for any that find to their shame 
That two can play at their little game ! 

For of all hard things to bear and grin, 
The hardest is knowing you're taken in. 



Ah well ! as a general thing we fret 
About the one we didn't get ; 

But I think we needn't make a fuss 
If the one we don't want didn't get us. 




THE MERR Y LARK. 



CHARLES KINGSLEY. 




HE merry, merry lark was up and 
singing, 
And the hare was out and feeding 
on the lea. 
And the merry, merry bells below 
were ringing, 
When my child's laugh rang through me. 



Now the hare is snared and dead beside the 
snow-yard, 
And the lark beside the dreary winter 
sea, 
And my baby in his cradle in the church- 
yard 
Waiteth there until the bells bring me. 



TEE INDIAN TO THE SETTLER. 



EDWARD EVERETT. 



fpPpHINK of the country for which the Indians fought ! Who can 
diib blame them ? As Philip looked down from his seat on Mount 
"®^^" Hope, that glorious eminence, that 



464 THE INDIAN TO THE SETTLER, 



throne of royal state, which far 



Outshone the wealth of Ormus and of Ind, 
Or where the gorgeous East, with richest hand, 
Showers on her kings barbaric pearl and gold,"— 

as lie looked down, and beheld the lovely scene which spread beneath, at a 
summer sunset, the distant hill-tops glittering as with fire, the slanting 
beams streaming across the waters, the broad plains, the island groups, 
the majestic forest, — could he be blamed, if his heart burned within him, 
as he beheld it all passing, by no tardy process from beneath his control, 
into the hands of the stranger ? 

As the river chieftains — the lords of the waterfalls and the mountains 
— ranged this lovely valley, can it be wondered at if they beheld with 
bitterness the forest disappearing beneath the settler's axe — the fishing- 
place disturbed by his saw-mills ? Can we not fancy the feelings with 
which some strong-minded savage, the chief of the Pocomtuck Indians, 
who should have ascended the summit of the Sugar-loaf Mountain (rising 
as it does before us, at this moment, in all its loveliness and grandeur,) — 
in company with a friendly settler — contemplating the progress already 
made by the white man, and marking the gigantic strides with which he 
was advancing into the wilderness, should fold his arms and say, " White 
man, there is eternal war between me and thee ! I quit not the land of 
my fathers, but with my life. In those woods, where I bent my youthful 
bow, I will still hunt the deer; over yonder waters I will still glide unre- 
strained, in my bark canoe. By those dashing waterfalls I will still lay 
up my winter's store of food ; on these fertile meadows I will still plant 
my corn. 

" Stranger, the land is mine! I understand not these paper- 
rights. I gave not my consent, when, as thou say est, these broad regions 
were purchased, for a few baubles, of my fathers. They could sell what 
was theirs; they could sell no more. How could my father sell that which 
the Great Spirit sent me into the world to live upon ? They knew not 
what they did. 

" The stranger came, a timid suppliant, — few and feeble, and asked to 
lie down on the red man's bear- skin, and warm himself at the red man's 
fire, and have a little piece of land to raise corn for his women and child- 
ren; and now he is become strong, and mighty, and bold, and spreads out 
his parchments over the whole, and says, ' It is mine.' 

" Stranger ! there is not room for us both. The Great Spirit has not 
made us to live together. There is poison in the white man's cup ; the 
wnite man's dog barks at the red. man's heels. If I should leave the land 



THE INDIAN TO THE SETTLER. 



465 



of my fathers, whither shall I fly? Shall I go to the south, and dwell 
among the graves of the Pequots? Shall I wander to the west, the fierce 
Mohawk — the man-eater, — is my foe. Shall I fly to the east, the great 
water is before me. No, stranger; here I have lived, and here will I die; 
and if here thou abidest, there is eternal war between me and thee. 




INNOVATIONS OF THE WHITE MAN. 



"Thou hast taught me thy arts of destruction; for that alone I thank 
thee. And now take heed to thy steps ; the red man is thy foe. When 
thou goest forth by day, my bullet shall whistle past thee; when thou liest 
down by night, my knife is at thy throat. The noonday sun shall not dis- 
cover thine enemy, and the darkness of midnight shall not protect thy rest. 
Thou shalt plant in terror, and I will reap in blood; thou shalt sow the 
earth with corn, and I will strew it with ashes; thou shalt go forth with 

the sickle, and I will follow after with the scalping- knife; thou shalt bund, 
30 



436 



THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. 



and I will burn, — till the white man or the Indian perish from the land. 
Go thy way for this time in safety, — but remember, stranger, there is 



eternal war between me and thee!' 



JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. 



ROBERT BURNS. 




OHN ANDERSON, my jo, John, 

When we were first acquent 
Your locks were like the raven, 

Your bonnie brow was brent ; 
But now your brow is beld, John, 

Your locks are like the snaw ; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson, my jo. 



John Anderson, my jo, John 

We clamb the hill thegither ; 
And mony a canty day, John, 

We've had wi' ane anither. 
Now we maun totter down, John, 

But hand-in-hand we'll go : 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson, my jo. 



THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. 



FRANCIS SCOTT KEY. 




H! say, can you see, by the dawn's ] Now it catches the gleam of the morning's 



early light, 
What so proudly we hailed at the 
twilight's last gleaming ? 
k> Whose broad stripes and bright stars 
through the perilous fight, 
O'er the rampart, we watched were 
so gallantly streaming : 
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs burst- 
ing in air, 
Gave proof through the night that our flag 
was still there ; 
Oh ! say, does that star-spangled banner 

yet wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of 
the brave? 

On the shore, dimly seen through the mists 
of the deep, 
Where the foe's haughty host in dread 
silence reposes, 
What is that which the breeze, o : er the tow- 
ering steep, 
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half 
discloses? 



first beam, 
In full glory reflected now shines on the 

stream ; 
'Tis the star-spangled banner ! oh, long 

may it wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of 

the brave ! 

And where is that band, who so vauntingly 
swore 
That the havoc of war and the battle's 
confusion 
A home and a country should leave us no 
more? 
Their blood has washed out their foul 
footsteps' pollution. 
No refuge could save the hireling and 

slave, 
From the terror of death and the gloom of 
the grave ; 
And the star-spangled banner in triumph 

shall wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of 
the brave ! 



THE AMERICAN FLAG. 



467 



Oh! thus be it ever, when freemen shall 


Then conquer we must, for our cause it is 


stand 


just, 


Between their loved homes and the war's 


And this be our motto, "In God is our 


desolation ; 


trust." 


-Blest with victory and peace, may the heav- 


And the star-spangled banner in triumph 


en-rescued land 


shall wave 


Praise the power that has made and pre- 


O'er the land of the free and the home of 


served us a nation. 


the brave ! 



TEE AMERICAN FLAG. 



JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 




sHEN Freedom, from her mountain 
height, 
Unfurled her standard to the air, 
She tore the azure robe of night, 

And set the stars of glory there ! 
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 
The milky baldric of the skies, 
And striped its pure celestial white 
With streakings of the morning light, 
Then, from his mansion in the sun, 
"She called her eagle bearer down, 
And gave into his mighty hand 
The symbol of her chosen land ! 

Majestic monarch of the cloud ! 

"Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, 
To hear the tempest-trumpings loud, 
And see the lightning lances driven, 

"When strive the warriors of the storm, 
And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, — 
Child of the sun ! to thee 'tis given 

To guard the banner of the free, 
To hover in the sulphur smoke, 
To ward away the battle stroke, 

And bid its blendings shine afar, 

Like rainbows on the cloud of war, 
The harbingers of victory ! 

Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly, 
The sign of hope and triumph high ! 
"When speaks the signal-trumpet tone, 
And the long line comes gleaming on, 
Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet 
Has dimmed the glistening bayonet. 



Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn, 
To where thy sky-born glories burn, 
And as his springing steps advance, 
Catch war and vengeance from the glance. 
And when the cannon-mouthings loud 
Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud, 
And gory sabres rise and fall 
Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall, 
Then shall thy meteor glances glow, 

And cowering foes shall shrink beneath 
Each gallant arm that strikes below 

That lovely messenger of death. 

Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave 
Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave ; 
"When death, careering on the gale, 
Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, 
And frighted waves rush wildly back 
Before the broadside's reeling rack, 
Each dying wanderer of the sea 
Shall look at once to heaven and thee, 
And smile to see thy splendors fly 
In triumph o'er his closing eye. 

Flag of the- free heart's hope and home. 

By angel hands to valor given, 
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, 

And all thy hues were born in heaven I 
Forever float that standard sheet, 

"Where breathes the foe but falls before 
us, 
"With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, 

And Freedom's banner streaming o'er 
us! 



468 



THE DJINNS. 



THE DJINNS. 



VICTOR HUGO. 




jOWN, tower, 
| Shore, deep, 
Where lower 
43^fa Clouds steep; 
j*^ Waves gray 
J. Where play 
y Winds gay— 
J All asleep. 

Hark a sound, 
Far and slight, 
Breathes around 
On the night — 
High and higher, 
Nigh and nigher, 
Like a fire 
Roaring bright. 
New on it is sweeping 
With rattling beat 
Like dwarf imp leaping 
In gallop fleet ; 
He flies, he prances, 
In frolic fancies — 
On wave crest dances 
With pattering feet. 
Hark, the rising swell, 
With each nearer burst ! 
Like the toll of bell 
Of a convent cursed ; 
Like the billowy roar 
On a storm-lashed shore — 
Now hushed, now once more 
Maddening to its worst, 
Oh God ! the deadly sound 
Of the djinns' fearful cry ! 
Quick, 'neath the spiral round 
Of the deep staircase, fly ! 
See, our lamplight fade ! 
And of the balustrade 
Mounts, mounts the circling shade 
Up to the ceiling high ! 
'Tis the djinns' wild streaming swarm 
Whistling in their tempest flight ; 
Snap the tall yews 'neath the storm, 
Like a pine-flame crackling bright ; 
Swift and heavy, low, their crowd 
Through the heavens rushing loud ! — 
Like a lurid thunder cloud 
With its hold of fiery night ! 
Ha ! they are on us, close without ! 
Shut tight the shelter where we lie ! 
With hideous din the monster rout, 
Dragon and vampire, fill the sky ! 
The loosened rafter overhead 
Trembles and bends like quivering reed ; 
Shakes the old door with shuddering dread, 
As from its rusty hinge 'twould fly ! 
Wild cries of hell ! voices that howl and shriek ! 
The horrid swarm before the tempest tossed 
heaven !— descends my lonely roof to seek ; 
Bends the strong wall beneath the furious host;— 



Totters the house, as though, like dry leaf shorn 
From autumn bough and on mad blast borne! 
Up from its deep foundations it were torn 
To join the stormy whirl. Ah I all is lost ! 
Oh prophet ! if thy hand but now 
Save from these foul and hellish things, 
A pilgrim at thy shrine I'll bow, 
Laden with pious offerings. 
Bid their hot breath its fiery rain 
Stream on my faithful door in vain, 
Vainly upon my blackened pane 
Grate the fierce claws of their dark wings ! 
They have passed .'—and their wild legion 
Cease to thunder at my door ; 
Fleeting through night's rayless region, 
Hither they return no more. 
Clanking chains and sounds of woe 
Fill the forests as they go ; 
And the tall oaks cower low, 
Bent their flaming flight before. 
On I on ! the storm of wings 
Bears far the fiery fear, 
Till scarce the breeze now brings 
Dim murmuriugs to the ear ; 
Like locusts humming hail, 
Or thrash of tiny flail 
Plied by the pattering hail 
On some old roof-tree near. 
Fainter now are borne 
Fitful murmurings still 
As, when Arab horn 
Swells its magic peal, 
Shoreward o'er the deep 
Fairy voices sweep, 
And the infant's sleep 
Golden visions fill. 

Each deadly djinn, 
Dark child of fright, 
Of death and sin, 
Speeds the wild flight. 
Hark, the dull moan ! 
Like the deep tone 
Of Ocean's groan, 
Afar by night ! 

More and more 
Fades it now, 
As on shore 
Bipples flow — 
As the plaint, 
Far and faint, 
Of a saint, 
Murmured low. 
Hark ! hist I 
Around 
I list ! 
The bounds 
Of space 
All trace 
Efface 
Of sound. 




THE CHEMIST. 



THE CHEMIST TO HIS LOVE. 



469 




THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



IfjfpHEN, marshalled on the nightly 
plain, 
The glittering host bestud the 
J*Sr& sky; 

j One star alone of all the train 

<\r Can fix the sinner's wandering 

J eye- 

Hark ! hark ! to God the chorus breaks 

From every host, from every gem ; 
But one alone a Saviour speaks, 

It is the Star of Bethlehem. 



Once on the raging seas I rode, 

The storm was loud, the night was dark, 



The ocean yawned — and rudely blowed 
The wind that tossed my foundering bark. 

Deep horror then my vitals froze, 
Death-struck — I ceased the tide to stem ; 

When suddenly a "star arose, 
It was the Star of Bethlehem. 

It was my guide, my light, my all ; 

It bade my dark forebodings cease ; 
And through the storm and danger's thrall,. 

It led me to the port of peace. 
Now safely moored — my perils o'er, 

I'll sing, first in night's diadem, 
Forever and for evermore, 

The Star!— the Star of Bethlehem. 



THE CHEMIST TO HIS LOVE. 



LOVE thee, Mary, and thou lovest me- 
Our mutual flame is like the affinity 
That doth exist between two simple 

bodies : 
I am Potassium to thine Oxygen. 
'T is little that the holy marriage vow 
Shall shortly make us one. That unity 
Is, after all, but metaphysical, 
would that I, my Mary, were an acid, 
living acid ; thou an alkali 



Endowed with human sense, that brought 

together, 
We might both coalesce into one salt, 
One homogeneous crystal. that thou 
Wert Carbon, and myself were Hydrogen ! 
We would unite to form olefiant gas, 
Or common coal, or naphtha. Would to Hea 

ven 
That I were Phosphorus, and thou wert 

Lime, 



470 



SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE. 



And we of Lime composed a Phosphuret ! 
I'd be content to be Sulphuric Acid, 
So that thou might be Soda ; in that case 
We should be Glauber's salt. Wert thou 

Magnesia 
Instead, we'd form the salt that's named from 

Epsom. 
Couldst thou Potassa be, I Aquafortis, 
Our happy union should that compound 

form, 
Nitrate of Potash, — otherwise Saltpetre. 



And thus our several natures sweetly blent, 
We'd live and love together, until death 
Should decompose the fleshy tertium quid, 
Leaving our souls to all eternity 
Amalgamated. Sweet, thy name is Briggs 
And mine is Johnson. Wherefore should 

not we 
Agree to form a Johnsonate of Briggs? 
We will. The day, the happy day is nigh, 
When Johnson shall with beauteous Briggs 

combine. 



SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE. 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 




ifpOW various are the situations of the people covered by the roofs 
beneath me, and how diversified are the events at this moment 
befalling them! The new-born, the aged, the dying, the strong in 
life, and the recent dead, are in the chambers of these many man- 
1 sions. The full of hope, the happy, the miserable, and the desper- 

« ate, dwell together within the circle of my glance. In some of the 

houses over which my eyes roam so coldly, guilt is entering into hearts 
that are still tenanted by a debased and trodden virtue — guilt is on the 
very edge of commission, and the impending deed might be averted; guilt 
is done, and the criminal wonders if it be irrevocable. There are broad 
thoughts struggling in my mind, and, were I able to give them distinct- 
ness, they would make their way in eloquence. Lo! the rain-drops are 
descending. 

The clouds, within a little time, have gathered over all the sky, hang- 
ing heavily, as if about to drop in one unbroken mass upon the earth. At 
intervals the lightning flashes from their brooding hearts, quivers, dis- 
appears, and then comes the thunder, travelling slowly after its twin-born 
flame. A strong wind has sprung up, howls through the darkened streets, 
and raises the dust in dense bodies, to rebel against the approaching 
storm. All people hurry homeward — all that have a home; while a few 
lounge by the corners, or trudge on desperately, at their leisure. 

And now the storm lets loose its fury. In every dwelling I perceive 
the faces of the chambermaids as they shut down the windows, excluding 
the impetuous shower, and shrinking away from the quick, fiery glare. The 
large drops descend with force upon the slated roofs, and rise again in 



WHEN SPARROWS BUILD. 



471 



smoke. There is a rush and roar, as of a river through the air, and muddy- 
streams bubble majestically along the pavement, whirl their dusky foam 
into the kennel, and disappear beneath iron grates. Thus did Arethusa 
sink. I love not my station here aloft, in the midst of the tumult which I 
am powerless to direct or quell, with the blue lightning wrinkling on my 
brow, and the thunder muttering its first awful syllables in my ear. I will 
descend. Yet let me give another glance to the sea, where the foam breaks 
in long white lines upon a broad expanse of blackness, or boils up in far 
distant points, like snowy -mountain-tops in the eddies of a flood; and let 
me look once more at the green plain, and little hills of the country, over 
which the giant of the storm is riding in robes of mist, and at the town, 
whose obscured and desolate streets might beseem a city of the dead ; and 
turning a single moment to the sky, now gloomy as an author's prospects, 
I prepare to resume my station on lower earth. But stay ! A little speck 
of azure has widened in the western heavens ; the sunbeams find a passage, 
and go rejoicing through the tempest; and on yonder darkest cloud, born, 
like hallowed hopes, of the glory of another world, and the trouble and 
tears of this, brightens forth the Rainbow ! 



WHEN SPARROWS BUILD. 




JEAN INGELOW. 



jHEN sparrows build, and the leaves 
break forth, 
My old sorrow wakes and cries. 
For I know there is dawn in the far, 
far north, 
And a scarlet sun doth rise ; 
Like a scarlet fleece the snow-field spreads, 

And the icy fount runs free ; 
And the bergs begin to bow their heads, 
And plunge and sail in the sea. 

0, my lost love, and my own, own love, 

And my love that loved me so ! 
Is there never a chink in the world above 

Where they listen for words from below? 
Nay, I spoke once, and I grieved thee sore ; 

I remembered all that I said ; 
And now thou wilt hear me no more — no more 

Till the sea gives up her dead. 

Thou didst set thy foot on the ship, and sail 
To the ice-fields and the snow ; 



Thou wert sad, for thy love did not avail, 




And the end I could not know. 



472 



KIT CARSON'S RIDE. 



How could I tell I should love thee to-day, 
Whom that day I held not dear ? 

How could I tell I should love thee away 
When I did not love thee anear ? 

We shall walk no more through the sodden 
plain, 
With the faded bents o'erspread; 



We shall stand no more by the seething 
main 
While the dark wrack drives o'erhead ; 
We shall part no more in the wind and rain 

Where thy last farewell was said ; 
But perhaps I shall meet thee and know thee 
again 
When the sea gives up her dead. 



KIT CARSON'S RIDE. 



_o5fes 




JOAQUIN MILLER. 



UN ? Now you bet you ; I rather 
|H guess so. 

But he's blind as a badger. Whoa, 

Pache, boy, whoa. 
No, you wouldn't think so to look 
at his eyes, 
But he is badger blind, and it happened 
this wise ; — 

We lay low in the grass on the broad plain 

levels, 
Old Revels and I, and my stolen brown bride. 
" Forty full miles if a foot to ride, 
Forty full miles if a foot, and the devils 
Of red Camanches are hot on the track 
When once they strike it. Let the sun go 

down 
Soon, very soon," muttered bearded old Revels 
As he peered at the sun, lying low on his 

back, 
Holding fast to his lasso ; then he jerked at 

his steed, 
'And sprang to his feet, and glanced swiftly 

around, 
And then dropped, as if shot, with his ear to 

the ground, — 
Then again to his feet and to me, to my bride, 
While his eyes were like fire, his face like a 

shroud, 
His form like a king, and his beard like a 

cloud, 
And his voice loud and shrill, as if blown 

from a reed, — 
" Pull, pull in your lassos, and bridle to steed, 
And speed, if ever for life you would speed ; 



And ride for your lives, for your lives you 

must ride, 
For the plain is aflame, the prairie on fire, 
And feet of wild horses, hard flying before 
I hear like a sea breaking hard on the shore ; 
While the buffalo come like the surge of the 

sea, 
Driven far by the flame, driving fast on us 

three 
As a hurricane comes, crushing palms in his 

ire." 

We drew in the lassos, seized saddle and rein, 
Threw them on, sinched them on, sinched 

them over again, 
And again drew the girth, cast aside the 

macheer, 
Cut away tapidaros, loosed the sash from its 

fold, 
Cast aside the catenas red and spangled with 

gold, 
And gold-mounted Colt's, true companions 

for years, 
Cast the red silk serapes to the wind in a breath 
And so bared to the skin sprang all haste to 

the horse. 

Not a word, not a wail from a lip was let fall, 
Not a kiss from my bride, not a look or low 

call 
Of love-note or courage, but on o'er the 

plain 
So steady and still, leaning low to the mane, 
With the heel to the flank and the hand to 

the rein, 



KIT CARSON'S RIDE. 



473 



Rode we on, rode we three, rode we gray- 
nose and nose, 

Reaching long, breathing loud, like a creviced 
wind blows, 

Yet we spoke not a whisper, we breathed not 
a prayer, 

There was work to be done, there was death 
in the air, 

And the chance was as one to a thousand for 
all. 

Gray nose to gray nose and each steady 

mustang 
Stretched neck and stretched nerve till the 

hollow earth rang 
And the foam from the flank and the croup 

and the neck 
Flew around like the spray on a storm-driven 

deck. 
Twenty miles ! thirty miles ! — a dim distant 

speck — 
Then a long reaching line and the Brazos in 

sight. 
And I rose in my seat with a shout of de- 
light. 
I stood in my stirrup and looked to my right, 
But Revels was gone ; I glanced by my 

shoulder 
And saw his horse stagger ; I saw his head 

drooping 
Hard on his breast, and his naked breast 

stooping 
Low down to the mane as so swifter and 

bolder 
Ran reaching out for us the red-footed fire. 
To right and to left the black buffalo came, 
In miles and in millions, rolling on in despair, 
"With their beards to the dust and black tails 

in the air. 

As a terrible surf on a red sea of flame 
Rushing on in the rear, reaching high, reach- 
ing higher, 
And he rode neck to neck to a buffalo bull, 
The monarch of millions, with shaggy mane 

full 
Of smoke and of dust, and it shook with desire 
Of battle, with rage and with bellowings loud 
And unearthly and up through its lowering 
cloud 



Came the flash of his eyes like a half-hidden 

fire, 
While his keen crooked horns through the 

storm of his mane 
Like black lances lifted and lifted again ; 
And I looked but this once, for the fire licked 

through, 
And he fell and was lost, as we rode two and 

two. 

I looked to my left then, and nose, neck, and 

shoulder 
Sank slowly, sank surely, till back to my 

thighs ; 
And up through the black blowing veil of 

her hair 
Did beam full in mine her two marvelous 

eyes 
With a longing and love, yet look of despair, 
And a pity for me, as she felt the smoke fold 

her, 
And flames reaching far for her glorious hair. 
Her sinking steed faltered, his eager ears fell 
To and fro and unsteady, and all the neck's 

swell 
Did subside and recede, and the nerves fell as 

dead. 
Then she saw that my own steed still lorded 

his head 
With a look of delight, for this Pache, you see, 
Was her father's, and once at the South 

Santafee 
Had won a whole herd, sweeping everything 

down 
In a race where the world came to run for 

the crown ; 
And so when I won the true heart of my 

bride, — 
My neighbor's and deadliest enemy's child, 
And child of the kingly war-chief of his 

tribe, — 
She brought me this steed to the border the 

night 
She met Revels and me in her perilous flight, 
From the lodge of the chief to the north 

Brazos side; 
And said, so half guessing of ill as she smiled. 
As if jesting, that I, and I only, should ride 
The fleet-footed Pache", so if kin should pursue 
I should surely escape without other ado 



474 



THE ORGAN OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 



Than to ride, without blood, to the north 

Brazos side, 
And await her, — and wait till the next hollow 

moon 
Hung her horn m the palms, when surely 

and soon 
And swift she would join me, and all would 

be well 
Without bloodshed or word. And now as 

she fell 
From the front, and went down in the ocean 

of fire, 
The last that I saw was a look of delight 
That I should escape, — a love, — a desire, — 
Yet never a word, not a look of appeal, — 
Lest I should reach hand, should stay hand 

or stay heel 
One instant for her in my terrible flight. 

Then the rushing of fire rose around me and 
under, 



And the howling of beasts like the sound of 

thunder, — 
Beasts burning and blind and forced onward 

and over, 
As the passionate flame reached around them 

and wove her 
Hands in their hair, and kissed hot till they 

died, — 
Till they died with a wild and a desolate 

moan, 
As a sea heart-broken on the hard brown 

stone, 
And into the Brazos I rode all alone — 
All alone, save only a horse long-limbed, 
And blind and bare and burnt to the skin. 
Then just as the terrible sea came in 
And tumbled its thousands hot into the tide, 
Till the tide blocked up and the swift stream 

brimmed ^ 

In eddies, we struck on the opposite side. 



THE ORGAN OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 



WASHINGTON IRVING. 




HE sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the abbey. I could 
only hear, now and then, the distant voice of the priest repeating 
the evening service, and the faint responses of the choir ; these 
paused for a time, and all was hushed. The stillness, the desertion 
and obscurity that were gradually prevailing around, gave a 
deeper and more solemn interest to the place : 

For in the silent grave no conversation, 
No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, 
No careful father's counsel — nothing's heard, 
For nothing is, but all oblivion, 
Dust, and an endless darkness. 

Suddenly the notes of the deep-laboring organ burst upon the ear, 
falling with doubled and redoubled intensity, and rolling, as it were, huge 
billows of sound. How well do their volume and grandeur accord with 
this mighty building ! With what pomp do they swell through its vast 
vaults, and breathe their awful harmony through these caves of death, and 
make the silent sepulchre vocal ! And now they rise in triumph and 
acclamation, heaving higher and higher their accordant notes, and piling 



THE ORGAN OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 



475 




INTERIOR OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 



sound on sound. And now they pause, and the soft voices of the choir 
break out into sweet gushes of melody; they soar aloft, and warble along 



476 



QUARREL OF BRUTUS AND CASSIUS. 



the roof, and seem to play about these lofty vaults like the pure airs of 
heaven. Again the pealing organ heaves its thrilling thunders, compress- 
ing air into music, and rolling it forth upon the soul. What long-drawn 
cadences ! What solemn sweeping concords ! It grows more and more 
dense and powerful — it fills the vast pile, and seems to jar the very walls — 
the ear is stunned — the senses are overwhelmed. And now it is winding 
up in full jubilee — it is rising from the earth to heaven — the very soul 
seems rapt away and floated upwards on this swelling tide of harmony ! 

I sat for some time lost in that kind of reverie which a strain of music 
is apt sometimes to inspire : the shadows of evening were gradually thick- 
ening round me ; the monuments began to cast deeper and deeper gloom ; 
and the distant clock again gave token of the slowly waning day. 



QUARREL OF BRUTUS AND CASSIUS. 



SHAKESPEARE. 




Julius Caesar. — Act IV. Scene III. 
\AS81 US. — That you have wronged me 
doth appear in this : 
You have condemned and noted Lucius 

Pella 
For taking bribes here of the Sardians, 
Wherein my letters, praying on his 

side, 

Because I knew the man, were slighted 
off. 
Brutus. — You wronged yourself to write 

in such a case. 
Cassius. — In such a time as this, it is not 
meet 
That every nice offence should bear its com- 
ment. 
Brutus. — Let me tell you, Cassius, you 
yourself 
Are much condemned to have an itching 

palm, 
To sell and mart your offices for gold 
To undeservers. 

Cassius. — I an itching palm? 
You know that you are Brutus that speak 

this, 
Or, by the gods, this speech were else your 
last. 



Brutus. — The name of Cassius honors this 
corruption, 
And chastisement doth therefore hide his head. 

Cassius. — Chastisement ! 

Brutus. — Remember March, the Ides of 
March remember ! 
Did not great Julius bleed, for justice' sake ? 
What villain touched his body, that did stab, 
And not for justice ? What, shall one of us, 
That struck the foremost man of all this 

world 
But for supporting robbers ; shall we now 
Contaminate our fingers with base bribes, 
And sell the mighty space of our large 

honors, 
For so much trash as may be grasped thus? 
I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, 
Than such a Roman. 

Cassius. — Brutus, bay not me. 
I'll not endure it : you forget yourself, 
To hedge me in ; I am a soldier, I, 
Older in practice, abler than yourself 
To make conditions. 

Brutus. — Go to ; you are not, Cassius. 

Cassius. — I am. 

Brutus. — I say you are not. 



QUARREL OF BRUTUS AND CASSIUS. 



477 



Cassius. — Urge me no more, I shall forget 
myself; 
Have mind upon your health, tempt me no 
further. 
Brutus. — Away, slight man ! 
Cassius. — Is't possible ? 
Brutus. — Hear me for I will speak. 
Must I give way and room to your rash 

choler ? 
Shall I be frighted when a madman stares ? 
Cassius. — ye gods ! ye gods ! must I en- 
dure all this ? 
Brutus. — All this ? Aye, more ; fret till 
your proud heart break ; 
Go, show your slaves how choleric you are, 
And make your bondmen tremble. Must I 

budge ? 
Must I observe you ? Must I stand, and 

crouch 
Under your testy humor ? By the gods, 
You shall digest the venom of your spleen, 
Though it do split you ; for from this day 

forth, 
I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laugh- 
ter, 
When you are waspish. 

Cassius. — Is it come to this ? 
Brutus. — You say you are a better soldier : 
Let it appear so ; make your vaunting true, 
And it shall please me well ; for mine own 

part 
I shall be glad to learn of noble men. 

Cassius. — You wrong me every way ; you 
wrong me, Brutus ; 
I said an elder soldier, not a better ? 
Did I say "better"? 

Brutus. — If you did, I care not. 

Cassius. — When Caesar liv'd, he durst not 

thus have mov'd me. 
Brutus. — Peace, peace ! you durst not 

thus have tempted him. 
Cassius. — I durst not ? 
Brutus. — No. 

Cassius. — What ? Durst not tempt him ? 
Brutus — For your life you durst not. 
Cassius. — Do not presume too much upon 
my love ; 
I may do that I shall be sorry for. 

Brutus. — You have done that you should 
be sorry for, 



There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats ; 
For I am armed so strong in honesty 
That they pass by me as the idle wind, 
Which I respect not. I did send to you 
For certain sums of gold, which you denied 

me ; 
For I can raise no money by vile means ; 
By heaven, I had rather coin my heart, 
And drop my blood for drachmas, than to 

wring 
From the hard hands of peasants their vile 

trash 
By any indirection. I did send 
To you for gold to pay my legions, 
Which you denied me. Was that done like 

Cassius ? 
Should I have answered Caius Cassius so ? 
When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, 
To lock such rascal counters from his friends, 
Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts ; 
Dash him to pieces ! 

Cassius. — I denied you not. 
Brutus. — You did. 

Cassius. — I did not ; he was but a fool 
That brought my answer back. Brutus hath 

rived my heart. 
A friend should bear his friend's infirmities. 
But Brutus makes mine greater than they 

are. 
Brutus. — I do not, till you practice them 

on me. 
Cassius. — You love me not. 
Brutus. — I do not like your faults. 
Cassius. — A friendly eye could never see 

such faults. 
Brutus. — A flatterer's would not, though 

they do appear 
As huge as high Olympus. 

Cassius. — Come, Antony, and young Octa- 

vius, come ! 
Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius, 
For Cassius is aweary of the world : 
Hated by one he loves ; braved by his brother ; 
Checked like a bondman ; all his faults ob- 
served, 
Set in a note-book, learned, and conned by 

rote, 
To cast into my teeth. Oh, I could weep 
My spirit from mine eyes ! There is my 

dagger, 



47& 



MRS. CAUDLE NEEDS SPRING CLOTHING. 



And here my naked breast ; within, a heart, 
Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold ; 
If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth ; 
I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart : 
Strike as thou didst at Caesar ; for, I know. 
When thou didst hate him worst, thou lov- 

edst him better 
Than ever thou lovedst Cassius. 

Brutus. — Sheathe your dagger : 
Be angry when you will, it shall have scope; 
Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor. 
Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb 
That carries anger as the flint bears fire : 
Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark, 
And straight is cold again. 

Cassius. — Hath Cassius lived 
To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, 
When grief and blood ill-tempered, vexeth 
him? 



Brutus. — When I spoke that I was ill- 
tempered, too. 
Cassius. — Do you confess so much ? Give 

me your hand. 
Brutus. — And my heart too. [Embracing.] 
Cassius. — Brutus ! 
Brutus. — What's the matter ? 
Casius. — Have you not love enough to bear 
with me, 
When that rash humor which my mother 

gave me 
Makes me forgetful ? 

Brutus. — Yes, Cassius; and, from hence- 
forth, 
When you are over-earnest with your Bru- 
tus, 
He'll think your mother chides, and leave 
you so. 



MRS. CAUDLE NEEDS SPRING CLOTHING. 



DOUGLAS JERROLD. 



ijlJF there's anything in the world I hate — and you know it— it is, asking 
UU you for money. I am sure for myself, I'd rather go without a thing 
<p a thousand times, and I do, the more shame for you to let me. 
■I What do I want now? As if you didn't know! I'm sure, if I'd 

any money of my own, I'd never ask you for a farthing — never! It's 
painful to me, gracious knows ! What do you say ? If it's painful, why 
so often do itf I suppose you call that a joke — one of your club-jokes! 
As I say, I only wish I'd any money of my own. If there is anything that 
humbles a poor woman, it is coming to a man's pocket for every farthing. 
It's dreadful ! 

Now, Caudle, you shall hear me, for it isn't often I speak. Pray, do 
you know what month it is ? And did you see how the children looked at 
church to-day — like nobody else's children ? What was the matter with 
them ? Oh ! Caudle how can you ask ! Weren't they all in their thick 
merinoes and beaver bonnets? What do you say ? What of itf What ! 
You'll tell me that you didn't see how the Briggs girls, in their new chips, 
turned their noses up at 'em ! And you didn't see how the Browns 
looked at the Smiths, and then at our poor girls, as much as to say, 



MRS. CAUDLE NEEDS SPRING CLOTHING. 479 

" Pocr creatures ! what figures for the first of May?" You didn't see it! 
The more shame for you ! I'm sure, those Briggs girls — the little minxes ! 
• — put me into such a pucker, I could have pulled their ears for 'em over 
the pew. What do you say ! I ought to be ashamed to own it f Now, 
Caudle, it's no use talking ; those children shall not cross over the threshold 
next Sunday if they haven't things for the summer. Now mind — they 
shan't ; and there's an end of it ! 

Tm always wanting money for clothes ? How can you say that ? 
I'm sure there are no children in the world that cost their father so little ; 
but that's it — the less a poor woman does upon, the less she may. Now, 
Caudle, dear ! What a man you are ! I know you'll give me the money, 
because, after all, I think you love your children, and like to see 'em well 
dressed. It's only natural that a father should. How much money do I 
want f Let me see, love. There's Caroline, and Jane, and Susan, and 

Mary Ann, and What do you say ? I needn't count 'em ? You know 

how many there are ! That's just the way you take me up ! Well, how 
much money will it take ? Let me see — I'll tell you in a minute. You 
always love to see the dear things like new pins. I know that, Caudle ; 
and though I say it, bless their little hearts ! they do credit to you, Caudle. 

How much ? Now, don't be in a hurry ! Well, I think, with good 
pinching — and you know, Caudle, there's never a wife who can pinch 
closer than I can — I think, with pinching, I can do with twenty pounds. 
What did you say ? Twenty fiddlesticks f What! You won't give half 
the money ? Very well, Mr. Caudle ; I don't care ; let the children go in 
rags ; let them stop from church, and grow up like heathens and cannibals ; 
and then you'll save your money, and, I suppose, be satisfied. What do 
you say? Ten pounds enough? Yes, just like you men; you think 
things cost nothing for women ; but you don't care how much you lay out 
upon yourselves. Ttiey only want frocks and bonnets ? How do you 
know what they want ? How should a man know anything at all about 
it ? And you won't give more than ten pounds? Very well. Then you 
may go shopping with it yourself, and see what you'll make of it ! I'll 
have none of your ten pounds, I can tell you — no sir ! 

No ; you've no cause to say that. I don't want to dress the children 
up like countesses ! You often throw that in my teeth, you do ; but you 
know it's false, Caudle ; you know it ! I only wish to give 'em proper 
notions of themselves ; and what, indeed, can the poor things think, when 
they see the Briggses, the Browns, and the Smiths, — and their fathers 
don't make the money you do, Caudle — when they see them as fine as 
tulips ? Why, they must think themselves nobody. However, the twenty 



480 



THE DAY-DREAM. 



pounds I will have, if I've any; or not a farthing ! No, sir; no, — I don't 
want to dress up the children like peacocks and parrots ! I only want to 
make 'em respectable. What do you say ? You 11 give me fifteen pounds ? 
No, Caudle, no, not a penny will I take under twenty. If I did, it would 
seem as if I wanted to waste your money; and I am sure, when I come 
to think of it twenty pounds will hardly do ! 



THE DA Y-DREAM. 



A. TENNYSON. 




THE SLEEPING PALACE. 

HE varying year with blade and 
sheaf 
Clothes and re -clothes the happy 
plains ; 
Here rests the sap within the leaf; 
Here stays the blood along the 
veins. 

Faint shadows, vapors lightly curled, 
Faint murmurs from the meadows come, 



Here droops the banner on the tower, 
On the hall, — hearths the festal fires, 

The peacock in his laurel bower, 
The parrot in his gilded wires. 

Roof-haunting martins warm their eggs 
In these, in those the life is stayed, 

The mantels from the golden pegs 
Droop sleepily. No sound is made — 

Not even of a gnat that sings. 




THE TERRACE LAWN. 



Like hints and echoes of the world 
To spirits folded in the womb. 

Soft lustre bathes the range of urns 
On every slanting terrace-lawn, 

The fountain to his place returns, 
Deep in the garden lake withdrawn. 



More like a picture seemeth all, 
Than those old portraits of old kings, 
That watch the sleepers from the wall. 



Here sits the butler with a flask 

Between his knees, half drained 
The wrinkled steward at his task ; 



and there 



THE DAY-DREAM. 



481 



The maid of honor blooming fair, 
The page has caught her hand in his, 

Her lips are severed as to speak ; 
His own are pouted to a kiss ; 

The blush is fixed upon her cheek. 

Till all the hundred summers pass, 

The beams that, through the oriel shine, 
Make prisms in every carven glass, 

And beaker brimmed with noble wine. 
Each baron at the banquet sleeps ; 

Grave faces gathered in a ring. 
His state the king reposing keeps : 

He must have been a jolly king. 

All round a hedge upshoots, and shows 

At distance like a little wood ; 
Thorns, ivies, woodbine, mistletoes, 

And grapes with bunches red as blood ; 
All creeping plants, a wall of green, 

Close-matted, burr and brake and briar, 
And glimpsing over these, just seen, 

High up, the topmost palace spire. 

When will the hundred summers die, 

And thought and time be born again, 
And newer knowledge drawing nigh, 

Bring truth that sways the soul of men? 
Here all things in their place remain, 

As all were ordered, ages since. 
Come care and pleasure, hope and pain, 

And bring the fated fairy prince ! 

THE SLEEPING- BEAUTY. 

Year after year unto her feet, 

She lying on her couch alone, 
Across the purple coverlet, 

The maiden's jet-black hair has grown ; 
On either side her tranced form 

Forth streaming from a braid of pearl ; 
The slumb'rous light is rich and warm, 

And moves not on the rounded curl. 

The silk star-broidered coverlid 

Unto her limbs itself doth mould, 
Languidly ever ; and, amid 

Her full black ringlets, downward rolled, 
Glows forth each softly shadowed arm, 

"With bracelets of the diamond bright. 
Her constant beauty doth inform 

Stillness with love, and day with light, 
31 



She sleeps ; her breathings are not heard 

In palace chambers far apart. 
The fragrant tresses are not stirred 

That lie upon her charmed heart. 
She sleeps ; on either hand upswells 

The gold fringed pillow lightly prest ; 
She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells 

A perfect form in perfect rest. 

THE AEEIVAL. 

All precious things, discovered late, 

To those who seek them issue forth, 
For love in sequel works with fate, 

And draws the veil from hidden worth. 
He travels far from other skies — 

His mantle glitters on the rocks — 
A fairy prince, with joyful eyes, 

And lighter-footed than the fox. 

The bodies and the bones of those 

That strove in other days to pass, 
Are withered in the thorny close, 

Or scattered blanching in the grass. 
He gazes on the silent dead : 

" They perished in their daring deeds/' 
This proverb flashes through his head : 

" The many fail ; the one succeeds." 

He comes, scarce knowing what he seeks, 

He breaks the hedge ; he enters there ; 
The color flies into his cheeks ; 

He trusts to light on something fair ; 
For all his life the charm did talk 

About his path and hover near 
With words of promise in his walk, 

And whispered voices in his ear. 

More close and close his footsteps wind ; 

The magic music in his heart 
Beats quick and quicker, till he find 

The quiet chamber far apart. 
His spirit flutters like a lark, 

He stoops — to kiss her — on his knee 
" Love, if thy tresses be so dark, 

How dark those hidden eyes must be . 

THE REVIVAL. 

A touch, a kiss ! the charm was snapt, 
There rose a noise of striking clocks ; 

And feet that ran, and doors that clapt, 
And barking dogs, and crowing cocks ; 



482 



TIIE LITTLE RID HIN. 



A fuller light illumined all ; 

A breeze through all the garden swept ; 
A sudden hubbub shook the hall ; 

And sixty feet the fountain leapt. 

The hedge broke in, the banner blew, 

The butler drank, the steward crawled, 
The fire shot up, the martin flew, 

The parrot screamed, the peacock squalled : 
The maid and page renewed their strife ; 

The palace banged and buzzed and clackt ; 
And all the long-pent stream of life 

Dashed downward in a cataract. 

And last of all the king awoke, 

And in his chair himself upreared, 
And yawned, and rubbed his face and spoke ; 

" By holy rood, a royal beard! 
How say you ? we have slept, my lords ; 

My beard has grown into my lap." 
The barons swore, with many words, 

'Twas but an after-dinner's nap. 

"Pardy!" returned the king, "but still 

My joints are something stiff or so. 
My lord, and shall we pass the bill 

I mentioned half an hour ago ?" 
The chancellor, sedate and vain, 

In courteous words returned reply ; 
But dallied with his golden chain, 

And, smiling, put the question by. 

THE DEPARTURE. 

And on her lover's arm she leant, 
And round her waist she felt it fold ; 



And far across the hills they went 
In that new world which is the old. 

Across the hills, and far away 
Beyond their utmost purple rim, 

And deep into the dying day, 
The happy princess followed him. 

" I'd sleep another hundred years, 

love, for such another kiss !" 
" Oh wake for ever, love," she hears, 

" love, 'twas such as this and this." 
And o'er them many a sliding star, 

And many a merry wind was borne, 
And streamed through many a golden bar, 

The twilight melted into morn. 

" eyes long laid in happy sleep !" 

" happy sleep that lightly fled !" 
" happy kiss that woke thy sleep !" 

" love, thy kiss would wake the dead." 
And o'er them many a flowering range, 

Of vapor buoyed the crescent bark; 
And, rapt through many a rosy change, 

The twilight died into the dark. 

" A hundred summers ! can it be ? 

And whither goest thou, tell me where V* 
" seek my' father's court with me, 

For there are greater wonders there." 
And o'er the hills, and far away 

Beyond their utmost purple rim, 
Beyond the night, across the day, 

Through all the world she followed him. 



THE LITTLE BID HIN. 



MES. WHITNEY. 




ELL, thin, there was once't upon a time, away off in the ould coun- 
try, livin' all her lane in the woods, in a wee bit iv a house be 
herself, a little rid hin. Nice an' quiet she was, and niver did no 
kind o' harrum in her life. An' there lived out over the hill, in a 
din o' the rocks, a crafty ould felly iv a fox. An' this same ould 
villain iv a fox, he laid awake o' nights, and he prowled round 




33 



A crafty ould felly iv a fox. 



THE LITTLE RID HIN. 483 



slyly iv a day-time, thinkin' always so busy how he'd git the little rid 
hin, an' carry her home an' bile her up for his shupper. But the wise little 
rid hin niver went intil her bit iv a house, but she locked the door afther 
her, and pit the kay in her pocket. So the ould rashkill iv a fox, he 
watched, an' he prowled, an' he laid awake nights, till he came all to skin 
an' bone, an' sorra a ha'porth o' the little rid hin could he git at. But at 
lasht there came a shcame intil his wicked ould head, and he tuk a big 
bag one mornin', over his shouldher, an' he says till his mother, says he, 
" Mother, have the pot all bilin' agin' I come home, for I'll bring the little 
rid hin to-night for our shupper." An' away he wint, over the hill, an' 
came crapin' shly an' soft through the woods to where the little rid hin 
lived in her shnug bit iv a house. An' shure, jist at the very minute that 
he got along, out comes the little rid hin out iv the door, to pick up 
shticks to bile her tay-kettle. " Begorra, now, but I'll have yees," says 
the shly ould fox, an' in he shlips, unbeknownst, intil the house, an' hides 
behind the door. An' in comes the little rid hin, a minute afther, with her 
apron full of shticks, an' shuts to the door an' locks it, an' pits the kay in 
her pocket. An' thin she turns round, — an' there shtands the baste iv a 
fox in the corner. Well, thin, what did she do, but jist dhrop down her 
shticks, and fly up in a great fright and flutter to the big bame acrass 
inside o' the roof, where the fox couldn't git at her ! 

" Ah, ha ! " says the ould fox, " I'll soon bring yees down out o' that!" 
An' he began to whirrul round, an' round, an' round, fashter, an' fashter, 
an' fashter, on the floor, afther his big, bushy tail, till the little rid hin got 
so dizzy wid lookin', that she jist tumbled down aff the bame, and the fox 
whipped her up and popped her intill his bag, an' shtarted off home in 
a minute. An' he wint up the wood, an' down the wood, half the day 
long, with the little rid hin shut up shmotherin' in the bag. Sorra a know 
she knowd where she was at all, at all. She thought she was all biled an' ate 
up, an' finished shure ! But, by an' by, she remimbered herself, an' pit her 
hand in her pocket, an' tuk out her little bright scissors, and shnipped 
a big hole in the bag behind, an' out she leapt, an' picked up a big shtone 
an' popped it intil the bag, an' rin aff home, an' locked the door. 

An' the fox he tugged away up over the hill, with the big shtone at 
his back thumpin' his shouldhers, thinkin' to himself how heavy the little 
rid hin was, an' what a fine shupper he'd have. An' whin he came in 
sight iv his din in the rocks, and shpied his ould mother a watchin' for him 
at the door, he says, " Mother ! have ye the pot bilin' ? " An' the ould 
mother says, " Sure an' it is ; an' have ye the little rid hin ? " " Yes, jist 
here in me bag. Open the lid o' the pot till I pit her in," says he. 



484 



BYRON'S LATEST VERSES. 



An' the ould mother fox she lifted the lid o' the pot, an' the rashkiil 
untied the bag, an' hild it over the pot o' bilin' wather, an' shuk in the 
big, heavy shtone. An' the bilin' water shplashed np a}l over the rogue 
iv a fox, an' his mother, and shcalded them both to death. An' the little 
rid hin lived safe in her house foriver afther. 




THE MEETING OF THE WATERS. 




THOMAS MOORE. 



uHERE is not in the wide world a 
valley so sweet, 
As that vale in whose bosom the 
bright waters meet ; 
Oh ! the last rays of feeling and life 
must depart, 
Jfe Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade 
from my heart. 

Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the 

scene 
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green ; 



'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill, 
Oh ! no — it was something more exquisite 
still. 

'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom 

were near, 
Who made every dear scene of enchantment 

more dear, 
And who felt how the best charms of Nature 

improve, 
When we see them reflected from looks that 

we love. 



BYRON'S LATEST VERSES. 




llS time this heart should be unmoved, 
* Since others it has ceased to move ; 
Yet, though I cannot be beloved, 
Still let me love. 



My days are in the yellow leaf, 
The flowers and fruits of love are gone, 
The worm, the canker, and the grief, 
Are mine alone. 



DREAMS AND REALITIES. 



485 



The fire that in my bosom preys 
Is like to some volcanic isle, 
No torch is kindled at its blaze, 
A funeral pile. 

The hope, the fear, the jealous care, 
The exalted portion of the pain 
And power of love, I cannot share, 
But wear the chain. 

But 't is not here, — it is not here, 
Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now 
Where glory seals the hero's bier, 
Or binds his brow. 

The sword, the banner, and the field, 
Glory and Greece about us see ; 
The Spartan borne upon the shield 
Was not more free. 



Awake ! not Greece, — she is awake ! 
Awake, my spirit ! think through whom 
My life-blood tastes its parent lake, 
And then strike home ! 

Tread those reviving passions down, 
Unworthy manhood ! unto thee, 
Indifferent should the smile or frown 
Of beauty be. 

If thou regrett'st thy youth, — why live ? 
The land of honorable death 
Is here, — up to the field, and give 
Away thy breath ! 

Seek out — less often sought than found — 
A soldier's grave, for thee the best ; 
Then look around and choose thy ground, 
And take thy rest ! 



DREAMS AND REALITIES. 



PHCEBE CARYS LAST POEM. 




ROSAMOND, thou fair and good, 
And perfect flower of womanhood, 

Thou royal rose of June ! 
Why did'st thou droop before thy 

time? 
Why wither in the first sweet prime ? 

Why did'st thou die so soon ? 



For, looking backward through my tears 
On thee, and on my wasted years, 

I cannot choose but say, 
If thou had'st lived to be my guide, 
Or thou had'st lived and I had died, 

'Twere better far to-day. 

child of light, Golden head!— 
Bright sunbeam for one moment shed 

Upon life's lonely way — 
Why did'st thou vanish from our sight ? 
Could they not spare my little light 

From Heaven's unclouded day ? 

Friend so true, Friend so good !— 
Thou one dream of my maidenhood, 



That gave youth all its charms — 
What had I done, or what hadst thou, 
That, through this lonesome world till now, 

We walk with empty arms ? 

And yet had this poor soul been fed 
With all it loved and coveted, — 

Had life been always fair — 
Would these dear dreams that ne'er depart, 
That thrill with bliss my inmost heart, 

Forever tremble there ? 

If still they kept their earthly place, 
The friends I held in my embrace, 

And gave to death, alas ! 
Could I have learned that clear, calm faith 
That looks beyond the bonds of death, 

And almost long, to pass ? 

Sometimes, I think, the things we see 
Are shadows of the things to be ; 

That what we plan we build ; 
That every hope that hath been crossed, 
And every dream we thought was lost, 

In heaven shall be fulfilled. 



486 



DAVID, KING OF ISRAEL. 



That even the children of the brain 
Have not been born and died in vain, 

Though here unclothed and dumb ; 
But on some brighter, better shore 
They live, embodied evermore, 

And wait for us to come. 



And when on that last day we rise, 
Caught up between the earth and skies, 

Then shall we hear our Lord 
Say, Thou hast done with doubt and death, 
Henceforth, according to thy faith, 

Shall be thy faith's reward. 



DAVID, KING OF ISRAEL. 



EDWARD IRVING. 



jgijjpHEBE never was a specimen of manhood so rich and ennobled as 
lib David, the son of Jesse, whom other saints haply may have equalled 
'^W^ in single features of his character; but such a combination of man- 
f ly, heroic qualities, such a flush of generous, godlike excellencies, 
I . hath never yet been seen embodied in a single man. His Psalms, 
to speak as a man, do place him in the highest rank of lyric poets, as they 
set him above all the inspired writers of the Old Testament, — equalling in 
sublimity the flights of Isaiah himself, and revealing the cloudy mystery 
of Ezekiel ; but in love of country, and glorying in its heavenly patronage, 
surpassing them all. And where are there such expressions of the varied 
conditions into which human nature is cast by the accidents of Providence, 
such delineations of deep affliction and inconsolable anguish, and anon such 
joy, such rapture, such revelry of emotion in the worship of the living God! 
such invocations to all nature, animate and inanimate, such summonings of 
the hidden powers of harmony and of the breathing instruments of melody ! 
Single hymns of this poet would have conferred immortality upon any 
mortal, and borne down his name as one of the most favored of the sons 
of men. 

The force of his character was vast, and the scope of his life was im- 
mense. His harp was full-stringed, and every angel of joy and of sorrow 
swept over the chords as he passed; but the melody always breathed of 
heaven. And such oceans of affection lay within his breast as could not 
always slumber in their calmness; for the hearts of a hundred men strove 
and struggled together within the narrow continent of his single heart. 
And will the scornful men have no sympathy for one so conditioned, but 
scorn him because he ruled not with constant quietness the unruly host of 
natures which dwelt within his single soul ? Of self-command surely he will 
not be held deficient who endured Saul's javelin to be so often launched at 
him, while the people without were willing to hail him king; who endured 



THE GENIUS OF MILTON. 487 

all bodily hardships and taunts of his enemies when revenge was in his 
hand, and ruled his desperate band like a company of saints, and restrained 
them from their country's injury. But that he should not be able to enact 
all characters without a fault, the simple shepherd, the conquering hero, and 
the romantic lover; the perfect friend, the innocent outlaw, and the royal 
monarch; the poet, the prophet, and the regenerator of the church; and 
withal the man, the man of vast soul, who played not those parts by turns, 
but was the original of them all, and wholly present in them all, — oh! that 
he should have fulfilled this high-priesthood of humanity, this universal 
ministry of manhood, without an error, were more than human ! With 
the defence of his backsliding, which he hath himself more keenly scruti- 
nized, more clearly discerned against, and more bitterly lamented than any 
of his censors, we do not charge ourselves; but if, when of these acts he 
became convinced, he be found less true to Grod, and to righteousness ; 
indisposed to repentance and sorrow and anguish ; exculpatory of himself; 
stout-hearted in his courses ; a formalist in his penitence, or in any way 
less worthy of a spiritual man in those than in the rest of his infinite moods, 
then, verily, strike him from the canon, and let his Psalms become monkish 
legends, or what you please. But if these penitential Psalms discover the 
soul's deepest hell of agony, and lay bare the iron ribs of misery, whereon 
the very heart dissolveth; and if they, expressing the same in words, shall 
melt the soul that conceiveth and bow the head that uttereth them, — then, 
we say, let us keep these records of the Psalmist's grief and despondency 
as the most precious of his utterances, and sure to be needed in the case of 
every man who essay eth to live a spiritual life. 



THE GENIUS OF MILTON. 



WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 

»S the needle turns away from the rising sun, from the meridian, from 
the occidental, from regions of fragrancy and gold and gems, and 
moves with unerring impulse to the, frosts and deserts of the 
north, so Milton and some few others, in politics, philosophy, and 
religion, walk through the busy multitude, wave aside the importunate 
trader, and, after a momentary oscillation from external agency, are 
found in the twilight and in the storm, pointing, with certain index, to the 
pole-star of immutable truth. 

I have often been amused at thinking in what estimation the greatest 




488 



MABEL MARTIN. 



of mankind were holden by their contemporaries. Not even the most 
sagacious and prudent one could discover much of them, or could prognos- 
ticate their future course in the infinity of space ! Men like ourselves are 
permitted to stand near, and indeed in the very presence of Milton : what. 
do they see? dark clothes, gray hair and sightless eyes ! Other men have 
better things; other men, therefore, are nobler ! The stars themselves are 
only bright by distance ; go close, and all is earthy. But vapors illuminate 
these; from the breath and from the countenance of God comes light on 
worlds higher than they; worlds to which He has given the forms and. 
names of Shakspeare and Milton. 



MABEL MARTIN. 



JOHN G. WHITTIER. 



PART I. 




THE RIVER VALLEY. 



g^pCROSS the level tableland, 

** A grassy, rarely trodden way, 

With thinnest skirt of birchen spray 




And stunted growth of cedar, 
To where you see the dull plain fall 
Sheer off steep-slanted, ploughed by 
all 



The season's rainfalls. On its brink 
The over-leaning harebells swing, 
With roots half bare the pine trees cling ; 

And through the shadow looking west, 
You see the wavering river flow, 
Along a vale, that far below 



Holds to the sun, the sheltering hills, 
And glimmering water-line between, 
Broad fields of corn and meadows green,. 

And fruit-bent orchards grouped around 
The low brown roofs and painted eaves, 
And chimney tops half hid in leaves. 

No warmer valley hides behind 

Yon wind scourged sand-dunes, cold an& 

bleak ; 
No fairer river comes to seek 

The wave-sung welcome of the sea, 
Or mark the northmost border line 
Of sun-loved growths of nut and vine. 



MABEL MARTIN. 



489 



Here, ground-fast in their native fields, 
Untempted by the city's gain, 
The quiet farmer folk remain 

Who bear the pleasant name of Friends, 
And keep their fathers' gentle ways 
And simple speech of Bible days ; 

In whose neat homesteads woman holds 
With modest ease her equal place, 
And wears upon her tranquil face 

The look of one who, merging not 
Her self-hood in another's will, 
Is love's and duty's handmaid still. 

Pass with me down the path that winds 
Through birches to the open land, 
Where, close upon the river strand 

You mark a cellar, vine o'errun, 

Above whose wall of loosened stones 
The sumach lifts its reddening cones, 



And the black nightshade's berries shine, 
And broad unsightly burdocks fold 
The household ruin, century-old. 

Here, in the dim colonial time, 

Of sterner lives and gloomier faith, 
A woman lived, tradition saith, 

Who wrought her neighbors foul annoy, 
And witched and plagued the country-side 
Till at the hangman's hand she died. 

Sit with me while the westering day 
Falls slantwise down the quiet vale, 
And, haply, ere yon loitering sail, 

That rounds the upper headland, falls 
Below Deer Island's pines, or sees 
Behind it Hawkswood's belt of trees 

Rise black against the sinking sun, 
My idyl of its days of old, 
The valley's legend shall be told. 



PART II. 




THE HUSKING. 



It was the pleasant harvest-time, 
When cellar-bins are closely stowed, 
And garrets bend beneath their load, 



And the old swallow-haunted barns, — 
Brown-gabled, long, and fall of seams 
Through which the moted sunlight streams, 



490 



MABEL MARTIN. 



And winds blow freshly in, to shake 
The red plumes of the roosted cocks, 
And the loose haymow's scented locks,- 

Are filled with summer's ripened stores, 
Its odorous grass and barley sheaves, 
From their low scaffolds to their eaves. 

On Esek Harden's oaken floor, 

With many an autumn threshing worn, 
Lay the heaped ears of unhusked corn. 




And thither came young men and maids, 
Beneath a moon that, large and low, 
Lit that sweet eve of long ago. 

They took their places ; some by chance, 
And others by a merry voice 
Or sweet smile guided to their choice. 



How pleasantly the rising moon, 
Between the shadows of the mows, 
Looked on them through the great elm- 
boughs ! 

On sturdy boyhood, sun-embrowned, 
On girlhood with its solid curves 
Of healthful strength and painless nerves ! 

And jests went round, and laughs, that made 
The house-dog answer with his howl, 
And kept astir the barn-yard fowl ; 

And quaint old songs their fathers sung 
In Derby dales and Yorkshire moors, 
Ere Norman William trod their shores ; 

And tales, whose merry license shook 
The fat sides of the Saxon thane, 
Forgetful of the hovering Dane, — 

Rude plays to Celt and Cimbri known, 
The charms and riddles that beguiled 
On Oxus' banks the young world's child, — 

That primal picture-speech wherein 
Have youth and maid the story told, 
So new in each, so dateless old, 

Recalling pastoral Ruth in her 

Who waited, blushing and demure, 
The red ear's kiss of forfeiture. 



PART III. 




THE WITCH S DAUGHTER. 



But still the sweetest voice was mute, 
That river-valley ever heard 



From lip of maid or throat of bird ; 
For Mabel Martin sat apart, 



MABEL MARTIN. 



491 



And let the hay-mow's shadow fall 
Upon the loveliest face of all. 

She sat apart, as one forbid, 

Who knew that none would condescend 
To own the Witch-wife's child a friend. 

The seasons scarce had gone their round, 
Since curious thousands thronged to see 
Her mother at the gallows-tree ; 

And mocked the prison-palsied limbs 
That faltered on the fatal stairs, 
And wan lip trembling with its prayers ! 



For the all-perfect love thou art, 
Some grim creation of his heart. 

Cast down our idols, overturn 
Our bloody altars ; let us see 
Thyself in Thy humanity ! 

Young Mabel from her mother's grave 
Crept to her desolate hearth-stone, 
And wrestled with her fate alone ; 

With love, and anger, and despair, 
The phantoms of disordered sense, 
The awful doubts of Providence ! 

0, dreary broke the winter days, 




And still o'er many a neighboring door 
She saw the horseshoe's curved charm." 



Few questioned of the sorrowing child, 
Or, when they saw the mother die, 
Dreamed of the daughter's agony. 

They went up to their homes that day, 
As men and Christians justified ; 
God willed it, and the wretch had died ! 

Dear God and Father of us all, 
Forgive our faith in cruel lies, — 
Forgive the blindness that denies ! 

Forgive thy creature when he takes, 



And dreary fell the winter nights 
When, one by one, the neighboring lights 

Went out, and human sounds grew still, 
And all the phantom-peopled dark 
Closed round her hearth-fire's dying spark. 

And summer days were sad and long, 
And sad the uncompanioned eves, 
And sadder sunset-tinted leaves, 

And Indian Summer's airs of balm ; 
She scarcely felt the soft caress, 
The beauty died of loneliness ! 



492 



MABEL MARTIN. 



The school-boys jeered her as they passed, 
And, when she sought the house of prayer, 
Her mother's curse pursued her there. 

And still o'er many a neighboring door 
She saw the horseshoe's curved charm, 
To guard against her mother's harm : 

That mother, poor and sick and lame, 
Who daily, by the old arm-chair, 
Folded her withered hands in prayer ; 

Who turned, in Salem's dreary jail, 
Her worn old Bible o'er and o'er, 
When her dim eyes could read no more ! 

Sore tried and pained, the poor girl kept 
Her faith, and trusted that her way, 
So dark, would somewhere meet the day. 



And still her weary wheel went round 




Day after day, with no relief: 
Small leisure have the poor for grief. 



PART IV. 




THE CHAMPION. 



So in the shadow Mabel sits ; 

Untouched by mirth she sees and hears, 
Her smile is sadder than her tears. 



But cruel eyes have found her out, 



And cruel lips repeat her name, 

And taunt her with her mother's shame. 

She answered not with railing words, 
But drew her apron o'er her face, 
And, sobbing, glided from the place. 



MABEL MARTIN. 



493 



And only pausing at the door, 

Her sad eyes met the troubled gaze 
Of one, who in her better days, 

Had been her warm and steady friend, 
Ere yet her mother's doom had made 
Even Esek Harden half afraid. 

He felt that mute appeal of tears, 
And starting, with an angry frown, 
Hushed all the wicked murmurs down. 

<; Good neighbors mine," he sternly said, 
" This passes harmless mirth or jest ; 
I brook no insult to my guest. 

*' She is indeed her mother's child ; 
But God's sweet pity ministers 
Unto no whiter soul than hers. 



" Let Goody Martin rest in peace ; 
I never knew her harm a fly, 
And witch or not, God knows — not I. 

" I know who swore her life away ; 
And as God lives, I'd not condemn 
An Indian dog on word of them." 

The broadest lands in all the town, 
The skill to guide, the power to awe, 
Were Harden's, and his word was law. 

None dared withstand him to his face, 
But one sly maiden spake aside : 
" The little witch is evil-eyed ! 

" Her mother only killed a cow, 
Or witched a churn or dairy -pan ; 
But she, forsooth, must charm a man !" 



PART V. 




IN THE SHADOW. 



Toor Mabel, homeward turning, passed 
The nameless terrors of the wood, 
And saw, as if a ghost pursued, 

Her shadow gliding in the moon ; 

The soft breath of the west wind gave 
A chill as from her mother's grave. 

How dreary seemed the silent house ! 
Wide in the moonbeams' ghastly glare 
Its windows had a dead man's stare! 

And, like a gaunt and spectral hand, 
The tremulous shadow of a birch 
Reached out and touched the door's low 
porch, 



As if to lift its latch : hard by, 
A sudden warning call she heard, 
The night-cry of a boding bird. 

She leaned against the door ; her face, 
So fair, so young, so full of pain, 
White in the moonlight's silver rain. 

The river, on its pebbled rim, 

Made music such as childhood knew ; 
The door-yard tree was whispered through 

By voices such as childhood's ear 
Had heard in moonlights long ago ; 
And through the willow-boughs beiow, 



494 



MABEL MARTIN. 



She saw the rippled waters shine ; 
Beyond, in waves of shade and light, 
The hills rolled off into the night. 

She saw and heard, but over all 
A sense of some transforming spell, 
The shadow of her sick heart fell. 

And still across the wooded space 
The harvest lights of Harden shone, 
And song and jest and laugh went on, 

And he, so gentle, true and strong, 
Of men the bravest and the best, 
Had he, too, scorned her with the rest ? 

She strove to drown her sense of wrong, 
And, in her old and simple way, 
To teach her better heart to pray. 

Poor child ! the prayer, begun in faith, 
Grew to a low, despairing cry 
Of utter misery : " Let me die ! 



Oh ! take me from the scornful eyes 
And hide me where the cruel speech 
And mocking finger may not reach ! 

I dare not breathe my mother's name : 
A daughter's right I dare not crave 
To weep above her unblest grave ! 

Let me not live until my heart, 
With few to pity, and with none 
To love me, hardens into stone. 

God ! have mercy on Thy child, 
Whose faith in Thee grows weak and small. 
And take me ere I lose it all !" 



A shadow on the moonlight fell, 

And murmuring wind and wave became. 
A voice whose burden was her name. 



PART VI. 




THE BETROTHAL. 



Had God then heard her ? Had He sent 
His angel down ? In flesh and blood, 
Before her Esek Harden stood ! 
i 

He laid his hand upon her arm : 

" Dear Mabel, this no more shall be; 
Who scoffs at you must scoff at me. 



You know rough Esek Harden well ; 
And if he seems no suitor gay, 
And if his hair is touched with gray, 

The maiden grown shall never find 
His heart less warm than when she smiled 
Upon his knees, a little child." 



A MARINER'S DESCRIPTION OF A PIANO. 



495 



Her tears of grief were tears of joy, 
As, folded in his strong embrace, 
She looked in Esek Hardens face. 

" 0, truest friend of all !" she said, 

" God bless you for your kindly thought, 
And make me worthy of my lot!" 

He led her forth, and blent in one, 
Beside their happy pathway ran 
The shadows of the maid and man. 

He led her through his dewy fields, 

To where the swinging lanterns glowed, 
And through the doors the huskers showed. 

•'Good friends and neighbors !" Esek said, 
" I'm weary of this lonely life ; 
In Mabel see my chosen wife ! 

" She greets you kindly, one and all ; 
The past is past, and all offence 
Falls harmless from her innocence. 



" Henceforth she stands no more alone; 
You know what Esek Harden is ; — 
He brooks no wrong to him or his. 

" Now let the merriest tales be told, 
And let the sweetest songs be sung 
That ever made the old heart young. 

" For now the lost has found a home ; 
And a lone hearth shall brighter burn, 
As all the household joys return!" 

0, pleasantly the harvest-moon, 
Between the shadows of the mows, 
Looked on them through the great elm 
boughs ! 

On Mabel's curls of golden hair, 
On Esek's shaggy strength it fell ; 
And the wind whispered, " It is well !" 



A MARINERS DESCRIPTION OF A PIANO. 




SEA captain, who was asked by his wife to look at some pianos 
while he was in the city, with a view of buying her one, wrote home 
to her : " I saw one that I thought would suit you, black walnut 
hull, strong bulk-heads, strengthened fore and aft with iron frame ; 
ceiled with white wood and maple. Kigging, steel wire — double 
on the rat lines, and whipped wire on the lower stays, and heavier 
cordage. Belaying pins of steel and well driven home. Length of taffrail 
over all, six feet two inches. Breadth of beam thirty-eight inches ; depth 
of hold fourteen inches. This light draft makes the craft equally servicea- 
ble in high seas or low flats. It has two martingales, one for the light 
airs and zephyr winds, and one for strong gusts and sudden squalls. Both 
are worked with foot rests, near the kelson, handy for the quartermaster, 
and out o' sight of the passengers. The running gear from the hand rail 
to the cordage is made of white-wood and holly ; works free and clear ; 
strong enough for the requirements of a musical tornado, and gentle enough 
for the requiem of a departing class. Hatches, black walnut; can be bat- 
tened down proof against ten-year-old boys and commercial drummers, or 



496 



LIFE. 



can be clewed up, on occasion, and sheeted home for a first-class instrumen- 
tal cyclone. I sailed the craft a little, and thought she had a list to star- 
board. Anyhow, I liked the starboard side better than the port, but the 
ship-keeper told me the owners had other craft of like tonnage awaiting 
sale or charter, which were On just even keel." 



LIFE. 




COMPOSED OF LINES SELECTED FROM THIRTY-EIGHT AUTHORS. 



iHY all this toil for triumphs of an 

hour ? ( Young. 

£? Life's a short summer — man is but 

a flower ; {Johnson. 

By turns we catch the fatal breath 

and die — {Pope. 

The cradle and the tomb, alas ! so 

nigh. {Prior. 

To be is better far than not to be, {Sewell. 

Though all man's life may seem a tragedy ; 

{Spenser. 

But light cares speak when mighty griefs are 

dumb — {Daniel. 

The bottom is but shallow whence they 

come. {Raleigh. 

Your fate is but the common fate of all ; 

{Longfellow. 
Unmingled joys can here no man befall ; 

{Southwell. 
Nature to each allots his proper sphere. 

{Congreve. 
Fortune makes folly her peculiar care ; 

{Churchill. 
Custom does often reason overrule, 

{Rochester. 
And throw a cruel sunshine on a fQol. 

{Armstrong. 
Live well — how long or short permit to 
heaven, {Milton. 

They who forgive most, shall be most for- 
given. {Bailey. 
Sin may be clasped so close we cannot see its 
face — {French. 
Vile intercourse where virtue has no place. 

{Somerville. 
Then keep each passion down, however dear, 

( Thompson. 



Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear ; 

{Byron. 
Her sensual snares let faithless pleasure lay, 

{Smollett. 
With craft and skill to ruin and betray. 

{Crabbe. 
Soar not too high to fall, but stoop to rise ; 

{Massing er. 
We masters grow of all that we despise. 

( Crowley. 
Oh, then, renounce that impious self-esteem ; 

{Beattie. 
Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream. 

( Cowper. 
Think not ambition wise because 'tis brave — 

{Davenant. 
The paths of glory lead but to the grave. ( Cray. 
What is ambition? 'Tis a glorious cheat, 

( Willis. 
Only destructive to the brave and great. 

{Addison. 
What's all the gaudy glitter of a crown? 

Dry den. 
The way to bliss lies not on beds of down. 

( Quarles. 
How long we live, not years but actions tell ; 

( Watkins. 
The man lives twice who lives the first life 
well. {Herrich. 

Make, then, while yet we may, your God 
your friend, {Mason. 

Whom Christians worship, yet not compre- 
hend. {Hill 
The trust that's given, guard, and to your- 
self be just ; {Dana. 
For live we how we may, yet die we must. 

{Shakespeare. 



THE DYING ALCHEMIST. 



49T 



THE DYING ALCHEMIST. 



N. P. WILLIS. 




iHE night-wind with a desolate moan 
swept by, 
And the old shutters of the turret 

swung 
Creaking upon their hinges ; and the 

moon, 
As the torn edges of the clouds flew 
past, 
Struggled aslant the stained and broken panes 
So dimly, that the watchful eye of death 
Scarcely was conscious when it went and 

came, 
The fire beneath his crucible was low, 
Yet still it burned : and ever, as his thoughts 
Grew insupportable, he raised himself 
Upon his wasted arm, and stirred the coals 
"With difficult energy ; and when the rod 
Fell from his nerveless fingers, and his eye 
Felt faint within its socket, he shrank back 
Upon his pallet, and, with unclosed lips, 
Muttered a curse on death ! 

The silent room, 
From its dim corners, mockingly gave back 
His rattling breath ; the humming in the fire 
Had the distinctness of a knell ; and when 
Duly the antique horologe beat one, 
He drew a phial from beneath his head, 
And drank. And instantly his lips com- 



And, with a shudder in his skeleton frame, 
He rose with supernatural strength, and sat 
Upright, and communed with himself: 

" I did not think to die 
Till I had finished what I had to do ; 
I thought to pierce th' eternal secret through 

With this my mortal eye; 
I felt, — Oh, God ! it seemeth even now — 
This cannot be the death-dew on my brow ; 

Grant me another year, 
God of my spirit ! — but a day, — to win 
Something to satisfy this thirst within ! 

I would know something here ! 
Break for me but one seal that is unbroken ! 
fclpeak for me but one word that is unspoken ! 

32 



" Vain, — vain, — my brain is turning 
With ?j swift dizziness, and my heart grows 

sick, 
And these hot temple-throbs come fast and 
thick, 
And I am freezing, — burning, — 
Dying! Oh, God! if I might only live! 
My phial Ha ! it thrills me, — I revive. 

" Aye, — were not man to die, 
He were too mighty for this narrow sphere! 
Had he but time to brood on knowledge 
here, — 
Could he but train his eye, — 
Might he but wait the mystic word and 

hour, — 
Only his Maker would transcend his power ! 

" This were indeed to feel 
The soul-thirst slacken at the living stream, — 
To live, Oh, God ! that life is but a dream ! 

And death Aha ! I reel, — 

Dim, — dim, — I faint, darkness comes o'er my 

eye- 
Cover me! save me! God of heaven! 

I die ! " 

'Twas morning, and the old man lay alone. 
No friend had closed his eyelids, and his lips,. 
Open and ashy pale, th' expression wore 
Of his death struggle. His long silvery hair 
Lay on his hollow temples, thin and wild, 
His frame was wasted, and his features wan 
And haggard as with want, and in his palm 
His nails were driven deep, as if the throe 
Of the last agony had wrung him sore. 

The storm was raging still. The shutter 

swung, 
Creaking as harshly in the fitful wind, 
And all without went on, — as aye it will, 
Sunshine or tempest, reckless that a heart 
Is breaking, or has broken, in its change. 

The fire beneath the crucible was out ; 
The vessels of his mystic art lay round, 
Useless and cold as the ambitious baud 



498 



GOD'S ACRE. 



That fashioned them, and the small rod, 
Familiar to his touch for threescore years, 
Lay on th' alembic's rim, as if it still 
Might vex the elements at its master's will. 

And thus had passed from its unequal frame 
A soul of fire, — a sun-bent eagle stricken, 
Prom his high soaring, down, — an instru- 
ment 



Broken with its own compass. Oh, how 

poor 
Seems the rich gift of genius, when it lies, 
Like the adventurous bird that hath out- 
flown 
His strength upon the sea, ambition- 
wrecked, — 
A thing the thrush might pity, as she sits 
Brooding in quiet on her lowly nest. 




GOD'S ACRE. 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 



LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase which 
calls 
The burial-ground God's acre ! It 
is just; 
It consecrates each grave within its 
| walls, 

And breathes a benison o'er the 
sleeping dust. 

God's-Acre ! Yes, that blessed name imparts 
Comfort to those who in the grave have 

sown 
The seed that they had garnered in their 

hearts. 
Their bread of life, alas ! no more their own. 



Into its furrows shall we all be cast, 

In the sure faith that we shall rise again 
At the great harvest, when the archangel's 
blast 
Shall winnow, like a fan the chaff and 
grain. 

Then shall the good stand in immortal 
bloom, 
In the fair gardens of that second birth ; 
And each bright blossom mingle its per- 
fume 
With that of flowers which never bloomed 
on earth. 



MRS. CAUDLE'S LECTURE ON SHIRT BUTTONS. 499 



With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up 
the sod, 
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow ; 



This is the field and Acre of our God ! 
This is the place where human harvests 
grow! 



MRS. CAUDLE'S LECTURE ON SHIRT BUTTONS. 



DOUGLAS JEE.KOLD. 



EEE Mr. Caudle, I hope you're in a little better temper than you 

e^ were this morning. There, you needn't begin to whistle : people 

'*^§r Q don't come to bed to whistle. But it's just like you; I can't speak, 

± that you don't try to insult me. Once, I used to say you were the 

J best creature living : now, you get quite a fiend. Do let you rest ? 

No, I won't let you rest. It's the only time I have to talk to you, and you 

shall hear me. I'm put upon all day long : it's very hard if I can't speak 

a word at night ; and it isn't often I open my mouth, goodness knows ! 

Because once in your lifetime your shirt wanted a button, you must 
almost swear the roof off the house. You didn't swear ? Ha, Mr. Caudle ! 
you don't know what you do when you're in a passion. You were not in 
.a passion, wern't you ? Well, then I don't know what a passion is ; and I 
think I ought to by this time. I've lived long enough with you, Mr. Cau- 
dle, to know that. 

It's a pity you hav'nt something worse to complain of than a button 
off your shirt. If you'd some wives, you would, I know. I'm sure I'm 
never without a needle-and-thread in my hand ; what with you and the 
children, I'm made a perfect slave of. And what's my thanks ? Why, if 
once in your life a button's off your shirt — what do you say " ah " at ? I 
say once, Mr. Caudle ; or twice or three times, at most. I'm sure, Caudle, 
no man's buttons in the world are better looked after than yours. I only 
wish I'd kept the shirts you had when you were first married ! I should 
like to know where were your buttons then ? 

Yes, it is worth talking of ! But that's how you always try to put 
me down. You fly into a rage, and then, if I only try to speak, you won't 
hear me. That's how you men always will have all the talk to yourselves : 
a poor woman isn't allowed to get a word in. A nice notion you have of a 
wife, to suppose she's nothing to think of but her husband's buttons. A 
pretty notion, indeed, you have of marriage. Ha ! if poor women only 
knew what they had to go through ! "What with buttons, and one thing 
and another ! They'd never tie themselves to the best man in the world, 



500 



NO SECTS IN HEAVEN. 



I'm sure. What would they do, Mr. Caudle? — Why, do much better 
without you, I'm certain. 

And it's my belief, after all, that the button wasn't off the shirt ; it's 
my belief that you pulled it off, that you might have something to talk 
about. Oh, you're aggravating enough, when you like, for anything ! All 
I know is, it's very odd the button should be off the shirt ; for I'm sure no 
woman's a greater slave to her husband's buttons than I am. I only say 
it's very odd. 

However, there's one comfort ; it can't last long. I'm worn to death 
with your temper, and shan't trouble you a great while. Ha, you may 
laugh ! And I dare say you would laugh ! I've no doubt of it ! That's 
your love ; that's your feeling ! I know that I'm sinking every day, though 
I say nothing about it. And when I'm gone, we shall see how your second 
wife will look after your buttons ! You'll find out the difference, then. 
Yes, Caudle, you'll think of me, then ; for then, I hope, you'll never have a 
blessed button to your back. 



NO SECTS IN RE A YEN 




|S|ALKINGr of sects till late one eve, 
H* Of various doctrines the saints believe, 
That night I stood, in a troubled 

dream, 
By the side of a darkly flowing 
stream. 



And a " Churchman " down to the river 

came : 

When I heard a strange voice call his name, 

" Good father, stop ; when you cross the tide, 

You must leave your robes on the other side." 

But the aged father did not mind ; 
And his long gown floated out behind, 
As down to the stream his way he took, 
His pale hands clasping a gilt-edged book. 

" I'm bound for heaven ; and when I'm 

there, 
Shall want my Book of Common Prayer ; 
And, though I put on a starry crown, 
I should feel quite lost without my gown." 

Then he fixed his eyes on the shining track, 
But his gown was heavy and held him back, 



And the poor old father tried in vain 

A single step in the flood to gain. 4 

I saw him again on the other side, 
But his silk gown floated on the tide ; 
And no one asked in that blissful spot, 
Whether he belonged to the "Church" or 
not. 

Then down to the river a Quaker strayed ; 
His dress of a sober hue was made : 
' My coat and hat must all be gray — 
I cannot go any other way." 

Then he buttoned his coat straight up to his 

chin, 
And staidly, solemnly waded in 
And his broad-brimmed hat he pulled down 

tight, 
Over his forehe'ad so cold and white. 

But a strong wind carried away his hat ; 
A moment he silently sighed over that ; 
And then, as he gazed to the further shore, 
The coat slipped off, and was seen no more. 



NO SECTS IN HEAVEN. 



501 



As he entered heaven his suit of gray 
Went quietly, sailing, away, away ; 
And none of the angels questioned him 
About the width of his beaver's brim. 

Next came Dr. Watts, with a bundle of 

psalms 
Tied nicely up in his aged arms, 
And hymns as many, a very wise thing, 
That the people in heaven, " all round," 

might sing. 

But I thought that he heaved an anxious 

sigh, 
And he saw that the river ran broad and 

high, 
And looked rather surprised, as one by one 
The psalms and hymns in the wave went 

down. 

And after him, with his MSS., 
Came Wesley, the pattern of goodliness ; 
But he cried, " Dear me ! what shall I do ? 
The water has soaked them through and 
through." 

And there on the river far and wide, 
Away they went down the swollen tide ; 
And the saint, astonished, passed through 

alone, 
Without his manuscripts, up to the thr.one. 

Then, gravely walking, two saints by name 
Down to the stream together came ; 
But, as they stopped at the river's brink, 
I saw one saint from the other shrink. 

" Sprinkled or plunged ? may I ask you, 

friend, 
How you attained to life's great end?" 
" Thus, with a few drops on my brow." 
" But I have been dipped, as you'll see me 

now, 

" And I really think it will hardly do, 

As I'm ' close communion,' to cross with 

you, 
You're bound, I know, to the realms of bliss, 
But you must go that way, and I'll go this." 

Then straightway plunging with all his 
might, 



Away to the left — his friend to the right, 
Apart they went from this world of sin, 
But at last together they entered in. 

And now, when the river was rolling on, 

A Presbyterian Church went down ; 

Of women there seemed an innumerable 

throng, 
But the men I could count as they passed 



And concerning the road, they could never 

agree 
The old or the new way, which it could be, 
Nor ever a moment paused to think 
'That both would lead to the river's brink. 

And a sound of murmuring, long and loud, 
Came ever up from the moving crowd ; 
"You're in the old way, and I'm in the new ; 
That is the false, and this is the true" — 
•Or, " I'm in the old way, and you're in the 

new; 
That is the false, and this is the true." 

But the brethren only seemed to speak : 
Modest the sisters walked and meek, 
And if ever one of them chanced to say 
What troubles she met with on the way, 
How she longed to pass to the other side, 
Nor feared to cross over the swelling tide, 

A voice arose from the brethren then, 
" Let no one speak but the ' holy men ; ' 
For have ye not heard the words of Paul, 
' Oh, let the women keep silence all ?' " 

I watched them long in my curious dream, 
Till they stood by the borders of the stream; 
Then, just as I thought, the two ways met ; 
But all the brethren were talking yet, 
And would talk on till the heaving tide 
Carried them over side by side — 
Side by side, for the way was one ; 
The toilsome journey of life was done ; 
And all who in Christ the Saviour died, 
Came out alike on the other side. 

No forms of crosses or books had they ; 
No gowns of silk or suits of gray ; 
No creeds to guide them, or MSS. ; 
For all had put on Christ's righteousness. 



502 



JEWISH HYMN IN JERUSALEM. 



EVENING BRINGS US HOME. 




PON the hills the wind is sharp and 
cold, 
The sweet young grasses wither on 

the wold, 
And we, Lord ! have wandered 
from thy fold ; 
But evening brings us home. 



Among the mists we stumbled, and the rocks 
Where the brown lichen whitens, and the fox 
Watches the straggler from the scattered 
flocks ; 
But evening brings us home. 

The sharp thorns prick us, and our tender 

feet 
Are cut and bleeding, and the lambs repeat 
Their pitiful complaints ; — Oh, rest is sweet 
When evening brings us home ! 



We have been wounded by the hunter's darts ; 
Our eyes are heavy, and our hearts 
Search for Thy coming ; — when the light de- 
parts 
At evening, bring us home ! 

The darkness gathers. Through the gloom 

no star 
Rises to guide us ; we have wandered far ; — 
Without Thy lamp we know not where we 
are; 
At evening, bring us home ! 

The clouds are round us, and the snow-drifts 

thicken. 
0, thou dear Shepherd ! leave us not to sicken 
In the waste night ; our tardy footsteps 

quicken ; 
At evening, bring us home. 



JEWISH HYMN IN JERUSALEM. 



HENRY HART MILMAN. 



flROD of the thunder ! from whose cloudy 
seat 




The fiery winds of desolation flow ; 
Father of vengeance! that with pur- 
ple feet 
Like a full wine-press tread'st the 
world below ; 
The embattled armies with thy sign 
to slay, 
Nor springs the beast of havoc on his prey, 
Nor withering Famine walks his blasted 
way, 
Till thou hast marked the guilty land for 



God of the rainbow ! at whose gracious sign 
The billows of the proud their rage sup- 
press ; 

Father of mercies ! at one word of thine 
An Eden blooms in the waste wilderness, 



And fountains sparkle in the arid sands, 
And timbrels ring in maidens' glancing hands, 
And marble cities crown the laughing lands, 
And pillared temples rise thy name to bless. 

O'er Judah's land thy thunders broke, O 
Lord! 
The chariots rattled o'er her sunken gate, 
Her sons were wasted by the Assyrian's 
sword, 
Even her foes wept to see her fallen state ; 
And heaps her ivory palaces became, 
Her princes wore the captive's garb of shame, 
Her temples sank amid the smouldering flame, 
For thou didst ride the tempest cloud of 
fate. 

O'er Judah's land thy rainbow, Lord, shall 
beam, 
And the sad City lift her crownless head, 



IMPROVING ON NATURE. 



503 



And songs shall wake and dancing 



In streets where broods the silence of the 

dead. 

The sun shall shine on Salem's gilded towers, 

On Carmel's side our maidens cull the flowers 

To deck at blushing eve their bridal bowers, 

And angel feet the glittering Sion tread. 

Thy vengeance gave us to the stranger's hand, 
And Abraham's children were led forth for 



With fettered steps we left our pleasant land, 
Envying our fathers in their peaceful graves. 
The strangers' bread with bitter tears we steep, 
And when our weary eyes should sink to sleep, 
In the mute midnight we steal forth to weep, 



Where the pale willows shade Euphrates' 
waves. 

The born in sorrow shall bring forth in joy ; 
Thy mercy, Lord, shall lead thy children 
home ; 
He that went forth a tender prattling boy 
Yet, ere he die, to Salem's streets shall 
come ; 
And Canaan's vines for us their fruits shall 

bear, 
And Hermon's bees their honeyed stores pre- 
pare, 
And we shall kneel again in thankful 
prayer, 
Where o'er the cherub-seated God full blaz- 
ed the irradiate throne. 



IMPRO VING ON NA TUBE. 



JOHN EUSKIN. 



§l|jT was a maxim of RafFaelle's that the artist's object was to make things 

j§j| not as Nature makes them, but as she would make them ; as she ever 

\jX! tries to make them, but never succeeds, though her aim may be de- 

& duced from a comparison of her effects ; just as if a number of archers 

¥ had aimed unsuccessfully at a mark upon a wall, and this mark were 

1 then removed, we could by an examination of their arrow-marks point 

out the probable position of the spot aimed at, with a certainty of being 

nearer to it than any of their spots. 

We have most of us heard of original sin, and may perhaps, in our 
modest moments, conjecture that we are not quite what God, or Nature, 
would have us to be. EafFaelle had something to mend in humanity : I 
should like to have seen him mending a daisy, or a pease-blossom, or a moth, 
or a mustard-seed, or any other of God's slightest work ! If he had accom- 
plished that, one might have found for him more .respectable employment, 
to set the stars in better order, perhaps (they seem grievously scattered as 
they are, and to be of all manner of shapes and sizes, except the ideal shape, 
and the proper size) ; or, to give us a corrected view of the ocean, that at 
least seems a very irregular and improvable thing: the very fishermen do 
not know this day how far it will reach, driven up before the west wind. 
Perhaps some one else does, but that is not our business. Let us go down 



504 



STABAT MATER. 



and stand on the beach by the sea — the great irregular sea, and count 
whether the thunder of it is not out of time — one, — two: — here comes a 
well-formed wave at last, trembling a little at the top, but on the whole, 
orderly. So ! Crash among the shingle, and up as far as this gray pebble ! 
Now, stand by and watch. Another; — Ah, careless wave! why couldn't 
you have kept your crest on ? It is all gone away into spray, striking up 
against the cliffs there — I thought as much — missed the mark by a couple 
of feet ! Another : — How now, impatient one ! couldn't you have waited 
till your friend's reflux was done with, instead of rolling yourself up with 
it in that unseemly manner ? You go for nothing. A fourth, and a goodly 
one at last ! What think we of yonder slow rise, and crystalline hollow, 
without a flaw ? Steady, good wave ! not so fast ! not so fast ! Where 
are you coming to ? This is too bad; two yards over the mark, and ever so 
much of you in our face besides ; and a wave we had so much hope of, behind 
there, broken all to pieces out at sea, and laying a great white tablecloth 
of foam all the way to the shore, as if the marine gods were to dine off it ! 
Alas, for these unhappy " arrow-shots " of Nature ! She will never hit her 
mark with those unruly waves of her's, nor get one of them into the ideal 
shape, if we wait for a thousand years. 



STABAT MATER. 




TRANSLATION OF DR. ABRAHAM COLES. 



TOOD th' afflicted Mother weeping, 
Near the cross her station keeping, 

Whereon hung her Son and Lord : 
Through whose spirit sympathizing, 
Sorrowing and agonizing, 

Also passed the cruel sword. 



how mournful and distressed 
"Was that favored and most blessed 

Mother of the Only Son ! 
Trembling, grieving, bosom heaving, 
While perceiving, scarce believing, 

Pains of that Illustrious One. 

Who the man, who, called a brother, 
Would not weep, saw he Christ's mother 

In such deep distress and wild ? 
Who could not sad tribute render 
Witnessing that mother tender 

Agonizing with her Child ? 



For His people's sin atoning. 
Him she saw in torments groaning, 

Given to the scourge's rod ; 
Saw her darling offspring, dying 
Desolate, forsaken, crying, 

Yield His spirit up to God. 

Make me feel thy sorrow's power, 
That with thee I tears may shower, 

Tender Mother, fount of love ! 
Make my heart with love unceasing 
Burn toward Christ the Lord, that pleasing 

I may be to Him above. 

Holy Mother, this be granted, 

That the Slain One's wounds be planted 

Firmly in my heart to bide. 
Of Him wounded, all astounded, — 
Depths unbounded for me sounded, — 

All the pangs with me divide. 



EVANGELINE ON THE PRAIRIE. 



505 



Make me weep with thee in union ; 


Wound for wound be there created ; 


With the Crucified, communion, 


With the Cross intoxicated 


In His grief and suffering give . 


For thy Son's dear sake, I pray — 


Near the cross with tears unfailing 


May I, fired with pure affection, 


I would join thee in thy wailing 


Virgin, have through thee protection 


Here as long as I shall live. 


In the solemn Judgment Day. 


Maid of maidens, all excelling, 


Let me by the Cross be warded, 


Be not bitter, me repelling, 


By the death of Christ be guarded ; 


Make thou me a mourner, too ; 


Nourished by divine supplies. 


Make me bear about Christ's dying, 


When the body death hath riven, 


Share His passion, shame defying, 


Grant that to the soul be given, 


All His wounds in me renew : 


Glories bright of Paradise. 



EVANGELINE ON THE PRAIRIE. 



H. W. LONGFELLOW. 




the night. Behind 
the black wall of the forest, 
.|7||S Tipping its summit with silver, arose 
the moon. On the river 
f Fell here and there through the 
branches a tremulous gleam of 
the moonlight, 
Like the sweet thoughts of love on a dark- 
ened and devious spirit. 

Nearer and round about her, the manifold 

flowers of the garden 
Poured out their souls in odors, that were 

their prayers and confessions 
Unto the night, as it went its way, like a 

silent Carthusian. 
Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy 

with shadows and night dews, 
Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm 

and the magical moonlight 
Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable 

longings, 
As, through the garden gate, and beneath 

the shade of the oak-trees, 
Passed she along the path to the edge of the 

measureless prairie. 

Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and 
fire-flies 



Gleaming and floating away in mingled and 

infinite numbers. 
Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God 

in the heavens, 
Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased 

to marvel and worship, 
Save when a blazing comet was seen on the 

walls of that temple. 




As if a hand had appeared and written upon 
them, " Upharsin." 

And the soul of the maiden, between the 

stars and the fire- flies, 
Wandered alone, and she cried, " Gabriel I 

my beloved ! 



506 



POLITICAL AGITATION. 



Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot 

behold thee? 
Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice 

does not reach me ? 
Ah ! how often thy feet have trod this path 

to the prairie ! 
Ah ! how often thine eyes have looked on the 

woodlands around me ! 
Ah ! how often beneath this oak, returning 

from labor, 
Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of 

me in thy slumbers. 



When shall these eyes behold, these arms be 
folded about thee ? " 

Loud and sudden and near the note of a 
whippoorwill sounded 

Like a flute in the woods ; and anon, through 
the neighboring thickets, 

Farther and farther away it floated and 
dropped into silence. 

" Patience ! " whispered the oaks from oracu- 
lar caverns of darkness ; 

And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh re- 
sponded, " To-morrow ! " 



NO. 



, c*fcy 



THOMAS HOOD. 




»0 sun — no moon ! 

No morn — no noon — 
No dawn — no dust — no proper time 
of day — 
No sky — no earthly view — 
No distance looking blue — 
road — no street — no " t'other side the 
way" — 
No end to any Row — 
No indication where the Crescents 

go- 
No top to any steeple — 
No recognitions of familiar people — 

No courtesies for showing 'em — 



No knowing 'em — 
No traveling at all — no locomotion. 
No inkling of the way — no notion — 

" No go " — by land or ocean — 
No mail — no post — 
No news from any foreign coast — 
No park — no ring — no afternoon gentility — 

No company — no nobility — 
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful 
ease, 
No comfortable feel in any member — 
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, 
No fruit, no flowers, no leaves, no birds, 
November ! 



POLITICAL AGITATION. 



WENDELL PHILLIPS. 



|||jfe|LL hail, Public Opinion ! To be sure, it is a dangerous thing under 
lill§S which to live. It rules to-day in the desire to obey all kinds of 
'*^T a laws, and takes your life. It rules again in the love of liberty, 
and rescues Shadrach from Boston Court House. It rules to-mor- 
1 row in the manhood of him who loads the musket to shoot down 

— God be praised ! — the man-hunter Grorsuch. It rules in Syracuse, and 
the slave escapes to Canada. It is our interest to educate this people in 



TIIE RANGER. 5Q7 



humanity, and in deep reverence for the rights of the lowest and humblest 
individual that makes up our numbers. Each man here, in fact, holds his 
property and his life dependent on the constant presence of an agitation 
like this of anti-slavery. Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty : power 
is ever stealing from the many to the few. The manna of popular liberty 
must be gathered each day, or it is rotten. The living sap of to-day out- 
grows the dead rind of yesterday. The hand intrusted with power, be- 
comes either from human depravity or esprit de corps, the necessary 
enemy of the people. Only by continual oversight can the democrat in 
office be prevented from hardening into a despot ; only by unintermitted 
agitation can a people be kept sufficiently awake to principle not to let 
liberty be smothered in material prosperity. 

All clouds, it is said, have sunshine behind them, and all evils have 
some good result ; so slavery, by the necessity of its abolition, has saved 
the freedom of the white race from being melted in the luxury or buried 
beneath the gold of its own success. Never look, therefore, for an age 
when the people can be quiet and safe. At such times Despotism^ like a 
shrouding mist, steals over the mirror of Freedom. The Dutch, a thou- 
sand years ago, built against the ocean their bulwarks of willow and mud. 
Do they trust to that ? No. Each year the patient, industrious peasant 
gives so much time from the cultivation of his soil and the care of his chil- 
dren to stop the breaks and replace the willow which insects have eaten, 
that he may keep the land his fathers rescued from the water, and bid 
defiance to the waves that roar above his head, as if demanding back the 
broad fields man has stolen from their realm. 



THE RANGER. 



JOHN G. WHITTIER. 



IpPOBERT Rawlin !— Frosts were falling 
|j§j|SK|> When the ranger's horn was calling, 

?W? Through the woods to Canada. 

Wf Gone the winter's sleet and snowing, 
T Gone the spring-time's hud and blow- 

I Gone the summer s harvest mowing, 
And again the fields are gray. 
Yet away, he's away ! 
Faint and fainter hope is growing 
In the hearts that mourn his stay. 



Where the lion crouching high on 
Abraham's rock with teeth of iron, 

Glares o'er wood and wave away, 
Faintly thence, as pines far sighing, 
Or as thunder spent and dying, 
Come the challenge and replying, 

Come the sounds of flight and fray. 

Well-a-day ! Hope and pray ! 
Some are living, some are lying 

In their red graves far away. 



508 



THE RANGER. 



Straggling rangers, worn with dangers, 
Homeward faring, weary strangers 

Pass the farm-gate on their way ; 
Tidings of the dead and living, 
Forest march and ambush, giving, 



On the grain-lands of the mainlands 
Stands a serried corn like train-bands, 
Plume and pennon rustling gay ; 
Out at sea, the islands wooded, 
Silver birches, golden hooded, 




Till the maidens leave their weaving, 
And the lads forget their play. 
" Still away, still away ! " 

Sighs a sad one, sick with grieving, 
" Why does Robert still delay?" 

Nowhere fairer, sweeter, rarer, 
Does the gelden-locked fruit-bearer 

Through his painted woodlands stray, 
Than where hillside oaks and beeches 
Overlook the long, blue reaches, 
Silent coves and pebbled beaches, 

And green isles of Casco Bay ; 

Nowhere day, for delay, 
With a tenderer look beseeches, 

" Let me with my charmed earth stay." 



Set with maples, crimson-blooded, 

White sea-foam and sand-hills gray, 
Stretch away, far away, 

Dim and dreamy, over-brooded 
By the hazy autumn day. 

Gayly chattering to the clattering 

Of the brown nuts downward pattering, 

Leap the squirrels, red and gray. 
On the grass-land, on the fallow, 
Drop the apples, red and yellow, 
Drop the russet pears and mellow, 

Drop the red leaves all the day, 

And away, swift away, 
Sun and cloud, o'er hill and hollow 

Chasing, weave their web of play. 



THE RANGER. 



509 



" Martha Mason, Martha Mason, 
Prithee tell us of the reason, 

Why you mope at home to-day : 
Surely smiling is not sinning ; 
Leave your quilling, leave your spinning 
"What is all your store of linen, 

If your heart is never gay ? 

Come away, come away ! 
Never yet did sad beginning 

Make the task of life a play." 

Over-bending, till she's blending 
With the flaxen skein she's tending, 

Pale brown tresses smoothed away 
From her face of patient sorrow, 
Sits she, seeking but to borrow, 
From the trembling hope of morrow, 

Solace for the weary day. 

" Go your way, laugh and play ; 
Unto him who heeds the sparrow 

And the lily, let me pray." 

" With our rally rings the valley, — 
Join us ! " cried the blue-eyed Nelly ; 




" Join us ! " cried the laughing May 
" To the beach we all are going, 
And, to save the task of rowing, 
West by north the wind is blowing, 

Blowing briskly down the bay ! 

Come away, come away ! 
Time and tide are swiftly flowing, 

Let us take them while we may ! 

" Never tell us that you'll fail us, 
Where the purple beach-plum mellows 

On the bluffs so wild and gray. 
Hasten, for the oars are falling ; 
Hark, our merry mates are calling : 
Time it is that we were all in, 

Singing tideward down the bay ! " 

" Nay, nay, 'let me stay ; 



Sore and sad for Robert Rawlin 

Is my heart," she said, " to-day." 

" Vain your calling for Rob Rawlin! 
Some red squaw his moose-meat's broiling, 




Or some French lass, singing gay ; 
Just forget as he's forgetting ; 
What avails a life of fretting ? 
If some stars must needs be setting, 

Others rise as good as they." 

" Cease, I pray ; go your way ! " 
Martha cries, her eyelids wetting ; 

" Foul and false the words you say I 

"Martha Mason, hear to reason ! 
Prithee, put a kinder face on ! " 

" Cease to vex me," did she say ; 
" Better at his side be lying, 
With the mournful pine-trees sighing, 
And the wild-birds o'er us crying, 

Than to doubt like mine a prey, 

While away, far away, 
Turns my heart, forever trying 

Some new hope for each new day. 

" When the shadows veil the meadows, 
And the sunset's golden ladders, 

Sink from twilight's walls of gray, 
From the window of my dreaming 
I can see his sickle gleaming, 
Cheery-voiced, can hear him teaming. 

Down the locust shaded way ; 

But away, swift away, 
Fades the fond, delusive seeming, 

And I kneel again to pray. 

"When the growing dawn is showing, 
And the barn-yard cock is crowing, 

And the horned moon pales away, 
From a dream of him awaking, 
Every sound my heart is making, 
Seems a footstep of his taking ; 



610 



JIM SMILEY'S FROG. 



Then I hush the thought, and say, 
Nay, nay, he's away ! 
Ah ! my heart, my heart is breaking 
For the dear one far away." 

Look up, Martha ! worn and swarthy, 
Glows a face of manhood worthy ; 

" Robert ! " " Martha ! " all they say. 



When such lovers meet each other, 
Why should prying idlers stay ? 

Quench the timbers fallen embers, 
Quench the red leaves in December's 

Hoary rime and chilly spray. 
But the hearth shall kindle clearer, 
Household welcomes sound sincerer. 




O'er went wheel and reel together, 
Little cared the owner whither ; 
Heart of lead, is heart of feather. 

Noon of night is noon of day ! 

Come away, come away ! 



Heart to loving heart draw nearer, 
When the bridal bells shall say : 
" Hope and pray, trust alway ; 

Life is sweeter, love is dearer, 
For the trial and delay ! " 



JIM SMILEY'S FROG. 



SAMUEL C. CLEMENS. 




ELL, this yer Smiley had rat-tarriers, and chicken-cocks, and all 
them kind of things, till you couldn't rest, and you couldn't fetch 
nothing for him to bet on but he'd match you. He ketched a frog 
one day, and took him home, and said he cal'klated to edercate 



JIM SMILEY'S FROG. qh 



him; and so he never done nothing for three months but set in his 
back yard and learn that frog to jump. And you bet he did learn 
him, too. He'd give him a little punch behind, and the next minute 
you'd see that frog whirling in the air like a doughnut, — see him turn one 
summerset, or maybe a couple, if he got a good start, and come down flat- 
footed and all right, like a cat. He got him up so in the matter of catching 
flies, and kept him in practice so constant, that he'd nail a fly every time 
as far as he could see him. Smiley said all a frog wanted was education, 
and he could do most anything; and I believe him. Why, I've seen him 
set Dan'l Webster down here on this floor, — Dan'l Webster was the name 
of the frog, — and sing out, "Flies, Dan'l, flies," and quicker'n you could 
wink he'd spring straight up, and snake a fly offh the counter there, and 
flop down on the floor again, as solid as a gob of mud, and fall to scratching 
the side of his head with his hind foot as indifferent as if he hadn't no idea 
he'd been doing any more'n any frog might do. You never see a frog so 
modest and straightfor'ard as he was, for all he was so gifted. And when 
it came to fair and square jumping on a dead level, he could get over more 
ground at one straddle than any animal of his breed you ever see. Jump- 
ing on a dead level was his strong suit, you understand ; and when it come 
to that, Smiley would ante up money on him as long as he had a red. 
Smiley was monstrous proud of his frog, and well he might be, for fellers 
that had travelled and been everywheres, all said he laid over any frog 
that ever they see. 

Well, Smiley kept the beast in a little lattice box, and he used to fetch 
him down town sometimes, and lay for a bet. One day a feller, — a stran- 
ger in the camp, he was, — came across him with his box, and says : 

"What might it be that you've got in the box?" 

And Smiley says, sorter indifferent like, " It might be a parrot, or it 
might be a canary, may be, but it ain't, — it's only just a frog." 

And the feller took it, and looked at it careful, and turned it 
round this way and that, and says, " H'm ! so 'tis. Well, what's he good 
for?" 

" Well," Smiley says, easy and careless, " he's good enough for one 
thing, I should judge, — he can outjump any frog in Calaveras county." 

The feller took the box again, and took another long particular look, 
and gave it back to Smiley, and says, very deliberate, " Well, I don't see 
no p'ints about that frog that's any better'n any other frog." 

" May be you don't," Smiley says. " May be you understand frogs, 
and may be you don't understand 'em ; may be you've had experience, and 
may be you an't only a amature, as it were. Anyways, I've got my 



512 JIM SMILEY'S FROG. 



opinion, and I'll risk forty dollars that lie can outjump ary frog in Cala- 
veras county. 

And the feller studied a minute, and then says, kinder sad like, "Well, 
I'm only a stranger here, and I ain't got no frog ; but if I had a frog, I'd 
bet you." 

And then Smiley says, " That's all right, — that's all right ; if you'll 
hold my box a minute, I'll go and get you a frog." And so the feller took 
the box, and put up his forty dollars along with Smiley 's and set down to 
wait. So he set there a good while, thinking and thinking to hisself, and 
then he got the frog out and prized his mouth open, and took a teaspoon 
and filled him full of quail shot, — filled him pretty near up to his chin, — 
and set him on the floor. Smiley he went to the swamp, and slopped 
around in the mud for a long time, and finally he ketched a frog, and 
fetched him in, and give him to this feller, and says : 

" Now, if you're ready, set him alongside of Dan'l, with his fore-paws 
just even with Dan'l, and I'll give the word." Then he says, " One — two 
— three — -jump ;" and him and the feller touched up the frogs from behind, 
and the new frog hopped off, but Dan'l give a heave, and hysted up his 
shoulders, — so, — like a Frenchman, but it wan't no use, — he couldn't budge ; 

he was planted as solid as an anvil, and he 
couldn't no more stir than if he was anchored 
out. Smiley was a good deal surprised, and 
he was disgusted too, but he didn't have no< 
idea what the matter was, of course. 

The feller took the money and started 
away; and when he was going out at the door, 
he sorter jerked his thumb over his shoulders, 
— this way, — at Dan'l, and says again, very 
deliberate, " Well I don't see no p'ints about 
that frog that's any better 'n any other frog." 
Smiley he stood scratching his head and 
looking down at Dan'l a long time, and at last he says, " I do wonder 
what in the nation that frog throwed off for; I wonder if there an't 
something the matter with him, he 'pears to look mighty baggy, some- 
how." And he ketched Dan'l by the nap of the neck, and lifted him 
up, and says, "Why, blame my cats, if he don't weigh five pound!" 
and turned him upside down, and he belched ont a double handful of 
shot. And then he see how it was, and he was the maddest man. He 
set the frog down, and took out after that feller, but he never ketched 
him. 




THE MOTHER IN THE SNOW STORM. 



Oxu 




TEE LIGET-EOUSE. 



THOMAS MOORE. 




^fglTOHE scene was more beautiful far to 
the eye, 
Than if day in its pride had ar- 
rayed it : , 
The land-breeze blew mild, and the 
azure-arched sky 
Looked pure as the spirit that 
made it : 
The murmur rose soft, as I silently gazed 
On the shadowy waves' playful motion, 
From the dim distant hill, till the light- 
house fire blazed 
Like a star in the midst of the ocean. 

No longer the joy of the sailor-boy's breast 
"Was heard in his wildly-breathed numbers ; 
The sea-bird had flown to her wave-girdled 
nest, 



The fisherman sunk to his slumbers: 
One moment I looked from the hill's gentle 



All hushed was the billows' commotion, 
And o'er them the light-house looked lovely 
as hope, — 
That star of life's tremulous ocean. 



The time is long past, and the scene is afar, 

Yet when my head rests on its pillow, 
Will memory sometimes rekindle the star 

That blazed on the breast of the billow : 
In life's closing hour, when the trembling sou 
flies, 

And death stills the heart's last emotion ; 
Oh, then may the seraph of mercy arise, 

Like a star on eternity's ocean ! 



TEE MOTEEE IN TEE SNOW-STORM. 



. r^fa , 



SEBA SMITH, 



I^HE cold wind swept the mountain's 
height, 
And pathless was the dreary wild ; 
And 'mid the cheerless hours of night 

A mother wander'd with her child. 
As through the drifting snow she 
pressed, 

The babe was sleeping on her breast. 
33 



And colder still the winds did blow, 
And darker hours of night came on, 

And deeper grew the drifts of snow ; 

Her limbs were chill'd, her strength wa a 
gone. 

" God ! " she cried, in accents wild, 

" If I must perish, save my child ! " 



rA 



JOE. 



She stripp'd her mantle from her breast, 
And bared her bosom to the storm, 

And round the child she wrapp'd the vest, 
And smiled to think her babe was warm. 

With one cold kiss one tear she shed, 

A d sunk upon a sncwy bed. 



At dawn a traveller passed by, 
And saw her 'neath a snowy veil ; 

The frost of death was in her eye, 

Her cheek was cold, and hard, and pale,- 

He moved the robe from off the child, 

The babe look'd up and sweetly smiled. 



JOE. 



ALICE ROBBINS. 




E don't take vagrants in, sir, 
And I am alone to-day, 

Leastwise, I could call the good man- 
He's not so far away. 

You are welcome to a breakfast — 
I'll bring you some bread and -tea 
You might sit on the old stone yonder, 
L nder the chestnut tree. 

You're traveling, stranger ? Mebbe 
You've got some notions to sell ? 

We hev a sight of peddlers, 
But we allers treat them well. 

For they, poor souls, are trying 

Like the rest of us to live : 
Anc 1 it's not like tramping the country 

And calling on folks to give. 

Not that I meant a word, sir — 
No offence in the world to you : 

I think, now I look at it closer, 
Your coat is an army blue. 

Don't say ? Under Sherman, were you ? 

That was — how many years ago ? 
I had a boy at Shiloh, 

Kearney — a sergeant — Joe ! 

Joe Kearney, you might a' met him ? 

But in course you were miles apart, 
He was a tall, straight boy, sir, 

The pride of his mother's heart. 

W« were off to Kittery, then, sir, 
Small farmers in dear old Maine ; 

It's a long stretch from there to Kansas, 
But I couldn't go back again. 



He was all we had, was Joseph ; 

He and my old man and me 
Had sort o' growed together, 

And were happy as we could be. 

I wasn't a lookin' for trouble 

When the terrible war begun, 
And I wrestled for grace to be able 

To give up our only son. 

Well, well, 'taint no use o' talking. 

My old man said, said he; 
" The Lord loves a willing giver ;" 

And that's what I tried to be. 

Well the heart and the flesh are rebels, 
And hev to be fought with grace ; 

But I'd give my life — yes, willin' — 
To look on my dead boy's face. 

Take care, you are spillin' your tea, sir, 
Poor soul ! don't cry : I'm sure 

You've had a good mother sometime — 
Your wounds, were they hard to cure ? 

Anderson ville ! God help you ! 

Hunted by dogs, did you say ! 
Hospital ! crazy, seven years, sir ? 

I wonder your'e living to-day. 

I'm thankful my Joe was shot, sir, 
" How do you know that he died ?" 
'Twas certified, sir, by the surgeon . 
Here's the letter, and — " mebbe he lied I'* 

Well, I never ! you shake like the ager. 

My Joe ! there's his name and the date ; 
" Joe Kearney, 7th Maine, sir, a sergeant— 

Lies here in a critical state — 



THE FAIRIES. 



515 



Just died — will be buried to-morrow — 
Can't wait for his parents to come." 

Well, I thought God had left us that hour, 
As for John, my poor man, he was dumb. 

Didn't speak for a month to the neighbors, 
Scarce spoke in a week, sir, to me ; 

Never been the same man since that Monday 
They brought us this letter you see. 

And you were from Maine ! from old Kittery ? 
What time in the year did you go ? 



I just disremember the fellows 

That marched out of town with our Joe. 

Lord love ye ! come into the house, sir ; 

It's gettin' too warm out o' door. 
If I'd known you'd been gone for a sojer, 

I'd taken you in here afore. 

Now make yourself easy. We're humbler, 
We Kansas folks don't go for show, — 

Set here — it's Joe's chair — take your hat off: 
" Call father !" My God ! you are Joe! 



THE FAIRIES. 



WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 




P the airy mountain, 
Down the rushy glen, 
We dare n't go a hunting 

For fear of little men ; 
Wee folk, good folk, 

Trooping all together ; 
Green jacket, red cap, 

And white owl's feather ! 



Down along the rocky shore 

Some make their home, — 
They live on crispy pancakes 

Of yellow tide-foam ; 
Some in the reeds 

Of the black mountain-lake, 
With frogs for their watch-dogs 

All night awake. 

High on the hill-top 

The old king sits ; 
He is now so old and gray 

He's nigh lost his wits. 
With a bridge of white mist 

Columbkill he crosses, 
On his stately journeys 

From Slieveleague to Rosses 
Or going up with music 

On cold starry nights, 
To sup with the queen 

Of the gay Northern Lights. 



They stole little Bridget 

For seven years long ; 
When she came down again 

Her friends were all gone. 
They took her lightly back, 

Between the night and morrow ; 
They thought that she was fast asleep, 

But she was dead with sorrow. 
They have kept her ever since 

Deep within the lakes, 
On a bed of flag-leaves, 

Watching till she wakes. 

By the craggy hill-side, 

Through the mosses bare, 
They have planted thorn-trees 

For pleasure here and there- 
Is any man so daring 

To dig one up in spite, 
He shall find the thornies set 

In his bed at night. 

Up the airy mountain, 

Down the rushy glen, 
We dare n't go a hunting 

For fear of little men ; 
Wee folk, good folk, 

Trooping all together ; 
Green jacket, red cap, 

And white owl's feather I 



516 WORSE THAN CIVIL WAR. 



WORSE THAN CIVIL WAR. 



From Senator Baker's Speech at Union Square, New York, April 20th, 1861. 
^f2o , 



j||||ET no man underrate the dangers of this controversy. Civil war, for 
the best of reasons on the one side, and the worst upon the other, is 
always dangerous to liberty, always fearful, always bloody ; but, fel- 
low-citizens, there are yet worse things than fear, than doubt and 
dread, and danger and blood. Dishonor is worse. Perpetual 
anarchy is worse. States forever commingling and forever sever- 
ing are worse. Traitors and secessionists are worse. To have star after 
star blotted out — to have stripe after stripe obscured — to have glory after 
glory dimmed, to have our women weep and our men blush for shame through- 
out generations to come — that and these are infinitely worse than blood. 

When we march, let us not march for revenge. As yet we have noth- 
ing to revenge. It is not much that where that tattered flag waved 
guarded by seventy men against ten thousand; it is not much that starva- 
tion effected what an enemy could not compel. "We have as yet something to 
punish; but nothing or very little to revenge. The President himself, a 
hero without knowing it — and I speak from knowledge, having known him 
from boyhood — the President says : " There are wrongs to be redressed 
already long enough endured." And we march to battle and to victory 
because we do not choose to endure this wrong any longer. They are 
wrongs not merely against us — not against you, Mr. President — not 
against me — but against our sons and against our grandsons that surround 
us. They are wrongs against our Union; they are wrongs against our 
Constitution ; they are wrongs against human hope and human freedom ; 
and thus, if it be avenged, still, as Burke says, "It is a wild justice at 
last." 

Only thus we will revenge them. The national banners, leaning from 
ten thousand windows in your city to-day, proclaim your affection and 
reverence for the Union. You will gather in battalions 

" Patient of toil, serene amidst alarms, 
Inflexible in faith, invincible in arms ;" 

and as you gather, every omen of present concord and ultimate peace will 
surround you. The ministers of religion, the priests of literature, the his- 
torians of the past, the illustrators of the present, capital, science, art, 
invention, discoveries, the works of genius — all these will attend us in our 
march, and we will conquer. And if from the far Pacific a voice feebler 



BY THE SHORE OF THE RIVER. 



517 



than the feeblest murmur upon its shore may be heard to give you courage 
and hope in the contest, that voice is yours to-day ; and if a man whose 
hair is gray, who is well-nigh worn out in the battle and toil of life, may 
pledge himself on such an occasion and in such an audience, let me say, as 
my last word, that when, amid sheeted fire and flame, I saw and led the 
hosts of New York as they charged in contest upon a foreign soil for the 
honor of your flag, so again, if Providence shall will it, this feeble hand 
shall draw a sword, never yet dishonored — not to fight for distant honor in 
a foreign land, but to fight for country, for home, for law, for Government, 
for Constitution, for right, for freedom, for humanity ; and in the hope that 
the banner of my country may advance, and wheresoever that banner 
waves, there glory may pursue and freedom be established. 



BY TEE SEORE OF TEE RIVER. 



, ^M^ . 



C. P. CRANCH. 




iHROUGH the gray willows the bleak 
winds are raving 
Here on the shore with its driftwood 
and sands ; 
Over the river the lilies are waving, 
Bathed in the sunshine of Orient 
lands ; 
Over the river, the wide dark river, 
Spring-time and summer are blooming 
forever. 

Here, all alone on the rocks I am sitting, 
Sitting and waiting — my comrades all 
gone — 

Shadows of mystery drearily flitting 
Over the surf with its sorrowful moan, 
Over the river, the strange cold river, 
Ah ! must I wait for the Boatman forever ? 

"Wife and children and friends were around 
me ; 
Labor and rest were as wings to my soul ; 
Honor and love were the laurels that 
crowned me ; 
Little I recked how the dark waters roll. 
But the deep river, the gray, misty river, 
All that I lived for has taken forever i 



Silently came a black boat o'er the billow 3 ; 

Stealthily grated the keel on the sand ; 
Rustling footsteps were heard through the 
willows, 
There the dark Boatman stood, waving 

his hand, 
Whisp'ring, " I come, o'er the shadowy 

river ; 
She who is dearest must leave thee forever." 

Suns that were brightest and skies that were 

bluest, 

Darkened and paled in the message he bore. 

Year after year went the fondest, the truest, 

Following that beckoning hand to the 

shore, 
Down to the river, the cold grim river, 
Over whose waters they vanished forever. 

Yet not in visions of grief have I wandered ; 

Still have I toiled, though my ardors have 

flown. 

Labor is manhood, and life is but squandered 

Dreaming vague dreams of the future 

alone. 
Yet from the tides of the mystical river 
Voices of spirits are whispering ever. 



518 



BILL MASONS BRIDE. 



Lonely and old in the dusk I am waiting, 
Till the dark Boatman, with soft, muffled 

oar, 
Glides o'er the waves, and I hear the keel 

grating, 



See the dim, beckoning hand on the 

shore, 
Wooing me over the welcoming river 
To gardens and homes that are shining for- 
ever ! 




INDIAN DEATH SONG. 




PHILIP FRENEAU. 



pIE sun sets at night, and the stars 
shun the day ; 
But glory remains when their lights 

fade away. 
Begin, you tormentors ! your threats 

are in vain, 

For the son of Alknomook will 

never complain. 

Remember the arrows he shot from his bow ; 

Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low ! 

"Why so slow ? do you wait till I shrink from 

the pain ? 
No ! the son of Alknomook shall never com- 
plain, 



Remember the wood where in ambush we lay, 

And the scalps which we bore from your 
nation away. 

Now the flame rises fast, you exult in my 
pain ; 

But the son of Alknomook can never com- 
plain. * 

I go to the land where my father is gone ; 

His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his 
son. 

Death comes like a friend to relieve me from 
pain ; 

And thy son, Alknomook ! has scorned to 
complain. 



BILL MASONS BRIDE 



F. BRET HARTE. 




ALF an hour till train time, sir, 
An' a fearful dark time, too ; 
Take a look at the switch lights, 
Fetch in a stick when you're 
through. 
" On time?" well, yes, I guess so — 

Left the last station all right — 

She'll come round the curveaflyin' ; 

Bill Mason comes up to-night. 



You know Bill ? No ! He's engineer, 

Been on the road all his life — 
I'll never forget the morning 

He married his chuck of a wife. 
'Twas the summer the mill hands struck- 

Just off work, every one ; 
They kicked up a row in the village 

And killed old Donevan's son. 



A HUSBAND'S EXPERIENCE IN COOKING. 



519 



Bill hadn't been married mor'n an hour, 

Up comes the message from Kress, 
Orderin' Bill to go up there, 

And bring down the night express. 
He left his gal in a hurry, 

And went up on number one, 
Thinking of nothing but Mary, 

And the train he had to run. 

And Mary sat down by the window 
To wait for the night express ; 

And, sir, if she hadn't a' done so, 
She'd been a widow, I guess. 

For it must a' been nigh midnight 

When the mill hands left the Ridge — 
They come down — the drunken devils! 

Tore up a rail from the bridge. 
But Mary heard 'em a workin' 

And guessed therewas something wrong 
And in less than fifteen minutes, 

Bill's train it would be along ? 

She couldn't come here to tell us, 

A mile — it wouldn't a' done — 
So she jest grabbed up a lantern, 

And made for the bridge alone. 
Then down came the night express, sir, 

And Bill was makin' her climb ! 
But Mary held the lantern, 

A-swingin' it all the time. 



Well ! by Jove ! Bill saw the signal, 
And he stopped the night express, 




And he found his Mary cryin', 
On the track, in her weddin' 

Cryin' and laughin' for joy, sir, 
An' holdin' on to the light — 

Hello ! here's the train — good-bye, sir, 
Bill Mason's on time to-night. 



A HUSBANDS EXPERIENCE IN COOKING. 



FOUND fault, some time ago, with Maria Ann's custard pie, and tried 
to tell her how my mother made custard pie. Maria made the pie 
after my receipt. It lasted longer than any other pie we ever had. 
Maria set it on the table every day for dinner, and you see I could 
not eat it, because I forgot to tell her to put in any eggs or shortening. It 
was economical, but in a fit of generosity I stole it from the pantry, and 
gave it to a poor little boy in the- neighborhood. The boy's funeral was 
largely attended by his former playmates. I did not go myself. 

Then there were the buckwheat cakes. I told Maria Ann any fool 
could beat her making those cakes, and she said I had better try it. So I 
did. I emptied the batter all out of the pitcher one evening, and set the 



520 



MEASURING THE BABY. 



cakes myself. I got the flour, and the salt, and water, and warned by the 
past, put in a liberal quantity of eggs and shortening. I shortened with 
tallow from roast beef, because I could not find any lard. The batter did 
not look right, and I lit my pipe and pondered : " Yeast ! yeast, to be 
sure !" I had forgotten the yeast. I went and woke up the baker, and got 
six cents' worth of yeast. I set the pitcher behind the sitting-room stove, 
and went to bed. In the morning I got up early, and prepared to enjoy 
my triumph; but I didn't. That yeast was strong enough to raise the 
dead, and the batter was running all over the carpet. I scraped it up and 
put it into another dish. Then got a fire in the kitchen, and put on the 
griddle. The first lot of cakes stuck to the griddle. The second dittoed, 
only more. Maria came down and asked what was burning. She advised 
me to- grease the griddle. I did it. One end of the griddle got too hot, 
and I dropped the thing on my tenderest corn, while trying to turn it 
around. Finally the cakes were ready for breakfast, and Maria got the 
other things ready. We sat down. My cakes did not have exactly the 

right flavor. I 



took one mouth- 
ful and it satisfied 
me; I lost my 
appetite at once. 
Maria would not 
let me put one on 
her plate, and I 
think those cakes 
may be reckoned 
a dead loss. The 
cat would not eat them. The dog ran off and staid away three days after 
one was offered him. The hens won't go within ten feet of them. I threw 
them into the back yard, and there has not been a pig on the premises 
since. I eat what is put before me now, and do not allude to my mother's 
system of cooking. 




MEASURING THE BABY. 



EMMA ALICE BROWN. 




measured the riotous baby 
Against the cottage wall — 
A lily grew on the threshold, 
And the boy was just as tall; 



A royal tiger-lily, 

With spots of purple and gold, 
And a heart like a jewelled chalice, 

The fragrant dew to hold. 



DIAMOND DUST. 



521 



Without, the bluebirds whistled 


And the little bare feet, that were dimpled 


High up in the old roof-trees, 


And sweet as a budding rose, 


And to and fro at the window 


Lay side by side together, 


The red rose rocked her bees ; 


In a hush of a long repose ! 


And the wee pink fists of the baby 




Were never a moment still, 


Up from the dainty pillow, 


Snatching at shine and shadow 


White as the risen dawn, 


That danced on the lattice-sill. 


The fair little face lay smiling, 




With the light of heaven thereon ; 


His eyes were wide as bluebells — 


And the dear little hands, like rose-leaves 


His mouth like a flower unblown — 


Dropped from a rose, lay still, 


Two little bare feet like funny white mice, 


Never to snatch at the sunshine 


Peeped out from his snowy gown ; 


That crept to the shrouded sill! 


And we thought, with a thrill of rapture 




That yet had a touch of pain, 


We measured the sleeping baby 


When June rolls around with her roses, 


With ribbons white as snow, 


We'll measure the boy again. 


For the shining rosewood casket 




That waited him below ; 


Ah me ! in a darkened chamber, 


And. out of the darkened chamber 


With the sunshine shut away 


We went with a childless mean- 


Through tears that fell like a bitter rain, 


To the height of the sinless angels 


We measured the boy to-day ; 


Our little one had grown. 



DIAMOND DUST. 



, o^ , 



^fnrS^HE world is what we make it. For- 
ward then, forward, in the power 
of faith, forward in the power of 
truth, forward in the power of 
el friendship, forward in the power 

of freedom, forward in the power 
of hope, forward in the power 
of God. (Henry Vincent. 

To honor God, to benefit mankind, 
To serve with lofty gifts the lowly needs 
Of the poor race for which the God-man died, 
And do it all for love — oh, this is great ! 
And he who does this will achieve a name 
Not only great but good. (Holland. 

He that has never known adversity is but 
half acquainted with others or with him- 
self. Constant success shows us but one 
side of the world, for, as it surrounds us 
with friends who will tell us only our 
merits, so it silences those enemies from 
whom alone we can learn our defects. 

{Chiton. 



We hear much now about circumstances 
making us what we are and destroying 
our responsibility ; but however much 
the external circumstances in which we 
are placed, the temptations to which we 
are exposed, the desires of our own na- 
tures, may work upon us, all these in- 
fluences have a limit, which they do not 
pass, and that is the limit laid upon them 
by the freedom of the will, which is 
essential to human nature, — to our per- 
sonality. (Luthardt. 

The vast cathedral of nature is full of holy 
scriptures and shapes of deep mysterious 
meaning, but all is solitary and silent 
there ; no bending knee, no uplifted eye, 
no lip adoring, praying. Into this vast 
cathedral comes the human soul seeking 
its Creator, and the universal silence is 
changed to sound, and the sound is har- 
monious and has a meaning and is com- 
prehended and felt. (Longfellow. 



522 



DIAMOND DUST. 



The shaping our own life is our own work. 
It is a thing of beauty, it is a thing of 
shame, as we ourselves make it. We 
lay the corner and add joint to joint, we 
give the proportion, we set the finish. 
It may be a thing of beauty and of joy 
forever. God forgive us if we pervert 
our life from putting on its appointed 
glory. ( Ware. 

They who live most by themselves reflect 
most upon others, and he who lives sur- 
rounded by the million never thinks of 
any but the one individual — himself. 
We are so linked to our fellow-beings 
that were we not chained to them by 
action, we are carried to and connected 
with them by thought. (Bulwer. 

Censure and criticism never hurt anybody. 
If false, they can't hurt you unless you 
are wanting in manly character ; and if 
true, they show a man his weak points, 
and forewarn him against failure and 
trouble. {Gladstone. 

The humble man, though surrounded with 
the scorn and reproach of the world, is 
still in peace, for the stability of his 
peace resteth not upon the world, but 
upon God. (Kempis. 

Leave consequences to God, but do right. Be 
genuine, real, sincere, true, upright, God- 
like. The world's maxim is, trim your 
sails and yield to circumstances. But if 
you would do any good in your genera- 
tion, you must be made of sterner stuff, 
and help make your times rather than be 
made by them. You must not yield to 
customs, but, like the anvil, endure all 
blows, until the hammers break them- 
selves. When misrepresented, use no 
crooked means to clear yourself. Clouds 
do not last long. If in the course of 
duty you are tried by the distrust of 
friends, gird up your loins and say in 
your heart, " I was not driven to virtue 
by the encouragement of friends, nor 
will I be repelled from it by their cold- 
ness." Finally, " be just and fear not;" 
" Corruption wins not more than 
honesty;" truth lives and reigns when 
falsehood dies and rots. {Spurgeon. 



Some clocks do not strike. You must look at 
them if you would know the time. 
Some men do not talk their Christianity ; 
you must look at their lives if you would 
know what the gospel can do for human 
nature. But a clock need not be incor- 
rect because it strikes ; a man need not 
be inconsistent because he speaks as 
well as acts. [Joseph Parker. 

I love all men. I know that at bottom they 
cannot be otherwise ; and under all the 
false and overloaded and glittering mas- 
querade, there is in every man a noble 
nature beneath, only they cannot bring 
it out ; and whatever they do that is 
false and cunning and evil, there still 
remains the sentence of our Great Ex- 
ample, " Forgive them for they know 
not what they do." (Auerbach. 

If on a cold, dark night you see a man 
picking his way up a rickety pair of 
stairs where one of God's poor children 
lives, with a heavy basket on his arm, 
you need not stop him to ask if he loves 
the Lord. Whether he is an Orthodox, 
a Catholic, or a heathen, he is laying up 
treasures in heaven. (Golden Rule. 

There is a beautiful Indian apologue, which 
says : A man once said to a lump of 
clay, "What art thou?" The reply 
was, " I am but a lump of clay, but I 
was placed beside a rose and I caught 
its fragrance." — So our prayers are 
placed beside the smoke of the incense 
ascending before God ; thus they are 
made fragrant ' and a promise of suc- 
cess is given. In the old dispensation, 
a cloud hovered above the altar, and if 
by some mysterious means that cloud was 
borne down, it was a token that the offer- 
ing was rejected; but if the smoke rose 
up, then the offering was accepted, and 
sinners might rejoice. Our prayers are 
always ascending to God in the cloud of 
incense out of the angel's hand. There 
is, then, an assurance of blessedness. It 
is taken out of our hands altogether — he 
makes our prayers his own, they are 
his own prayers ascending up to God's 
throne, (Punshon. 



"DIAMOND DUST. 



523 



The greatest thing a human soul ever does 
in this world is to see something, and 
tell what it saw in a plain way. Hun- 
dreds of people can talk for one who can 
think, but thousands can think for one 
who can see. To see clearly, is poetry, 
prophecy, and religion, all in one. 

(Ruskin. 

There can be no real conflict between Science 
and the Bible — between nature and the 
Scriptures — the two Books of the Great 
Author. Both are revelations made by 
him to man ; the earlier telling of God- 
made harmonies coming up from the- 
deep past, and rising to their height 
when man appeared ; the later teaching 
man's relations to his Maker, and speak- 
ing of loftier harmonies in the eternal 
future. {Dana. 

Modern discoveries, instead of detracting 
from, increase the significance of, the 
Bible symbolism. Every new revela- 
tion of the beautiful or useful properties 
of light adds something significant to the 
meaning of our Lord's declaration, 
" I am the Light of the world." 

(R. B. Howard. 



The flowers of rhetoric are only acceptable 
when backed by the evergreens of truth 
and sense. The granite statue, rough 
hewn, though it be, is far more imposing 
in its simple and stern though rude pro- 
portions, than the plaster-cast, however 
elaborately wrought and gilded. 

(Macaulay. 

There is a broad distinction between charac- 
ter and reputation, for one may be de- 
stroyed by slander, while the other can 
never be harmed save by its possessor. 
Keputation is in no man's keeping. You 
and I cannot determine what other men 
shall think and say about us. We can 
only determine what they ought to think 
of us, and say about us, and we can 
only do this by acting squarely on our 
convictions. {Holland. 

We hold religion too cheaply, and speak of 
the ease with which it may be had, 
overlooking the stubborn depravity of 
the heart and the power of Satan. Some 
would like to ride to heaven in a close 
carriage, that would never be jolted, or 
enjoy sunshine all the way to the gates 
of glory. (Theo. L. Cuyler. 



MY MOTHER'S BIBLE. 



GEO. P. MOKEIS. 




SHIS book is all that's left me now, — 
fig Tears will unbidden start, — 

With faltering lip and throbbing brow 

I press it to my heart. 
For many generations past 
Here is our family tree ; 
My mother's hands this Bible clasped, 
She, dying, gave it me. 

Ah ! well do I remember those 

Whose names these records bear ; 
Who round the hearthstone used to close, 

After the evening prayer, 
And speak of what these pages said 

In tones my heart would thrill ! 
Though they are with the silent dead, 

Here are they living still ! 



My father read this holy book 

To brothers, sisters, dear ; 
How calm was my poor mother's look, 

Who loved God's word to hear ! 
Her angel face, — I see it yet: 

What thronging memories come 1 
Again that little group is met 

Within the halls of home ! 

Thou truest friend man ever knew, 

Thy constancy I've tried ; 
When all were false, I found thee true, 

My counsellor and guide. 
The mines of earth no treasures give 

That could this volume buy ; 
In teaching me the way to live, 

It taught me how to die ! 



524 



THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 




PLYMOUTH EOCK. 



THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 




EDWARD EVERETT. 



[ETHINKS I see it now, that one solitary, adventurous vessel, the 

Mayflower of a forlorn hope, freighted with the prospects of a 

future state, and bound across the unknown sea. I behold it 

pursuing, with a thousand misgivings, the uncertain, the tedious 

voyage. Suns rise and set, and weeks and months pass, and winter 

surprises them on the deep, but brings them not the sight of the wished-for 

shore. I see them now, scantily supplied with provisions, crowded almost 

to suffocation in their ill-stored prison, delayed by calms, pursuing a cir- 



BORRIOBOOLA GHA. 



525 



cuitous route ; and now driven in fury before the raging tempest, on the 
high and giddy wave. The awful voice of the storm howls through the 
rigging ; the laboring masts seem straining from their base ; the dismal 
sound of the pumps is heard ; the ship leaps, as it were, madly, from billow 
to billow ; the ocean breaks, and settles with ingulfing floods over the float- 
ing deck, and beats, with deadening, shivering weight, against the 
staggered vessel. I see them, escaped from these perils, pursuing their all 
but desperate undertaking, and landed, at last, after a few months passage, 
on the ice-clad rocks of Plymouth, — weak and weary from the voyage, 
poorly armed, scantily provisioned, without shelter, without means, sur- 
rounded by hostile tribes. 

Shut now, the volume of history, and tell me, on any principle of 
human probability, what shall be the fate of this handful of adventurers ? 
Tell me, man of military science, in how many months were they all swept 
off by the thirty savage tribes enumerated within the early limits of New 
England ? Tell me, politician, how long did this shadow of a colony, on 
which your conventions and treaties had not smiled, languish on the 
distant coast ? Student of history, compare for me the baffled projects, 
the deserted settlements, the abandoned adventures, of other times, and 
find the parallel of this! Was it the winter's storm, beating upon the 
houseless heads of women and children? was it hard labor and spare 
meals ? was it disease ? was it the tomahawk ? was it the deep malady of 
a blighted hope, a ruined enterprise, and a broken heart, aching, in its last 
moments, at the recollection of the loved and left, beyond the sea ? — was it 
some or all of these united, that hurried this forsaken company to their 
melancholy fate ? And is it possible that neither of these causes, that not 
all combined, were able to blast this bud of hope ? Is it possible that from 
a beginning so feeble, so frail, so worthy, not so much of admiration as of 
pity there has gone forth a progress so steady, a growth so wonderful, an 
expansion so ample, a reality so important, a promise, yet to be fulfilled, so 
glorious ? 



BORRIOBOOLA GHA. 



OERIN GOODRICH. 



&j: 



f§jffim> Stranger preached last Sunday, 
|||yl|fc And crowds of people came 
c^Kfjs To hear a two hours sermon 

On a theme I scarce can name 



A 



'Twas all about some heathen, 
Thousand of miles afar. 

"Who live in a land of darkness, 
Called Borrioboola Gha. 



526 



TO A WATERFOWL. 



So well their wants lie pictured. 

That when the box was passed, 
Each listener felt his pocket, 

And goodly sums were cast ; 
For all must lend a shoulder 

To push the rolling car 
That carries light and comfort 

To Bomoboola Gha. 

That night their wants and sorrows 

Lay heavy on my soul, 
And deep in meditation, 

I took my morning stroll, 
When something caught my mantle 

With eager grasp and wild, 
And, looking down in wonder, 

I saw a little child : 

A pale and puny creature, 

In rags and dirt forlorn ; 
" What do you want?" I asked her, 

Impatient to be gone ; 
With trembling voice she answered, 

" We live just down the street, 
And mamma, she's a-dying, 

And we've nothing left to eat." 

Down in a dark, damp cellar, 

With mould o'er all the walls, 
Through whose half-buried windows 

God's sunlight never falls ; 
Where cold and want and hunger 

Crouched near her as she lay, 
I found that poor child's mother, 

Gasping her life away. 

A chair, a broken table, 

A bed of mouldy straw, 
A hearth all dark and fireless. — 

But these I scarcely saw, 



For the mournful sight before me, 
So sad and sickening, — oh, 

I had never, never pictured 
A scene so full of woe ! 

The famished and the naked, 

The babe that pined for bread, 
The squalid group that huddled 

Around that dying-bed ; 
All this distress and sorrow 

Should be in lands afar ! 
Was I suddenly transported 

To Borrioboola Gha ? 

Ah, no ! the poor and wretched 

Were close beside my door, 
And I had passed them heedless 

A thousand times before. 
Alas, for the cold and hungry 

That met me every day, 
While all my tears were given 

To the suffering far away ! 

There's work enough for Christiana 

In distant lands, we know, 
Our Lord commands his servants 

Through all the world to go, 
Not only to the heathen; 

This was his command to them, 
" Go, preach the word, beginning 

Here, at Jerusalem." 

Christian ! God has promised, 

Whoe'er to such has given 
A cup of pure, cold water, 

Shall find reward in Heaven. 
Would you secure this blessing? 

You need not seek it far ; — 
Go find in yonder hovel 

A Borrioboola Gha ! 



TO A WATERFOWL. 




W. C. BRYANT. 



HITHER, midst falling dew, 

While glow the heavens with the 
last steps of day, 
Far, through their rosy depths, dost 
thou pursue 
Thy solitary way ? 



Vainly the fowler's eye 

Might mark thy distant flight to do thee- 
wrong, 
As, darkly painted on the crimsoD sky, 

Thy figure floats along. 



THE VOICES AT THE THRONE. 



527 



Seek'st thou the plashy brink 

Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 

On the chafed ocean side ? 




There is a Power whose care 
Teaches thy way along that 

The desert and illimitable air, 
Lone wandering, but not lost, 



coast, 



All day thy wings have fanned, 

At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere 



Yet stood not, weary, to the welcome land, 
Though the dark night is near. 

And soon that toil shall end ; 

Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and 
rest, 
And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall 
bend, 
Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. 

Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven 

Hath swallowed up thy form ; on my heart 

Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, 
And shall not soon depart. 



He who, from zone to zone, 

Guides through the boundless sky 
certain flight, 
In the long way that I must tread alone, 

Will lead my steps aright. 



tbv 



THE VOICES AT THE THRONE. 



T. WESTWOOD. 



WM LITTLE child, 

'Ufa A little meek-faced, quiet village 
child, 
Sat singing by her cottage door at 
eve 

¥ A low, sweet Sabbath song. No human ear 
J Caught the faint melody, — no human eye 
Beheld the upturned aspect, or the smile 
That wreathed her innocent lips while they 

breathed 
The oft-repeated burden of the hymn, 
" Praise God ! Praise God !" 



A seraph by the throne 
In full glory stood. With eager hand 
He smote the golden harp-string, till a flood 
Of harmony on the celestial air 
Welled forth unceasing. There, with a great 

voice 
He sang the " Holy, holy evermore, 
Lord God Almighty !" and the eternal courts 



Thrilled with the rapture, and the hierarchies, 
Angel, and rapt archangel, throbbed and 

burned 
With vehement adoration. 

Higher yet 
Higher, with rich magnificence of sound, 
Rose the majestic anthem, without pause, 
To its full strength ; and still the infinite 

heavens 
Rang with the " Holy, holy evermore !" 
Till, trembling with excessive awe and love, 
Each sceptered spirit sank before the throne 
With a mute hallelujah. 

But even then 
While the ecstatic song was at its height, 
Stole in an alien voice — a voice that seemed 
To float, float upward from some world afar— 
A meek and childlike voice, faint, but how 

sweet ! 
That blended with the spirit's rushing 6train 



528 



THE THREE SONS. 



Even as a fountain's music with the roll 
Of the reverberate thunder. 

Loving smiles 
Lit up the beauty of each angel's face 
At that new utterance, smiles of joy that 

grew 
More joyous yet as ever and anon 
Was heard the simple burden of the hymn, 
<l Praise God ! Praise God !" 



And when the seraph's song 
Had reached its close, and o'er the golden lyre 
Silence hung brooding, — when the eternal 

courts 
Rang with the echoes of his chant sublime, 
Still through the abysmal space that wander- 
ing voice 
Came floating upward from its world afar, 
Still murmured sweet on the celestial air, 
" Praise God ! Praise God ! 



THE THREE SONS. 



JOHN MOULTRIE. 



Wt§\ HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just 
^Ip five years old, 

< ^m With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, 
dm and mind of gentle mould ; 

$> They tell me that unusual grace in all 

}his ways appears, 
That my child is grave and wise of 
heart beyond his childish years. 

I cannot say how this may be ; I know his 
face is fair, 

And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet 
and serious air. 

I know his heart is kind and fond ; I know 
he loveth me, 

But loveth yet his mother more, with grate- 
ful fervency. 

But that which others most admire is the 
thought which fills his mind ; 

The food for grave, inquiring speech he every- 
where doth find: 

Strange questions doth he ask of me when 
we together walk ; 

He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks 
as children talk ; 

Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes 
not on bat or ball, 

But looks on manhood's ways and works, 
and aptly mimics all. 

His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes 
perplexed 

With thoughts about this world of ours, and 
thoughts about the next ; 



He kneels at his dear mothers knee, she 

teaches him to pray, 
And strange and sweet and solemn then are 

the words which he will say. 
Oh ! should my gentle child be spared to 

manhood's years like me, 
A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will 

be: 
And when I look into his eyes and stroke 

his thoughtful brow, 
I dare not think what I should feel, were I 

to lose him now. 



I have a son, a second son, a simple child of 

three ; 
I'll not declare how bright and fair his little 

features be ; 
How silver sweet those tones of his when he 

prattles on my knee. 
I do not think his light blue eye is like his 

brother's keen, 
Nor his brow so full of childish thought as 

his hath ever been ; 
But his little heart's a fountain pure of kind 

and tender feeling, 
And his every look's a gleam of light, rich 

depths of love revealing. 
"When he walks with me the country folk 

who pass us in the street, 
Will speak their joy, and bless my boy, he 

looks so mild and sweet. 



THE LIFE OF A CHILD FAIRY. 



529 



A playfellow he is to all, and yet, with 

cheerful tone, 
Will sing his little song of love, when left to 

sport alone. 
His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden 

home and hearth, 
To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten 

all our mirth. 
Should he grow up to riper years, God grant 

his heart may prove 
As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now 

for earthly love ! 
And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching 

eyes must dim, 
God comfort us for all the love which we shall 

lose in him. 

I have a son, a third sweet son ; his age I 

cannot tell, 
For they reckon not by years or months 

where he has gone to dwell. 
To us fcr fourteen anxious months, his infant 

smiles were given, 
And then he bade farewell to earth, and 

went to live in heaven. 
I cannot tell what form is his, what looks 

he weareth now, 
guess how bright a glory crowns his 

shining seraph brow, 
thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the 

bliss which he doth feel, 
Are numbered with the secret things which 

God will not reveal. 



Xor 



The 



But I know, (for God hath told me this) that 

he is now at rest, 
Where other blessed infants are — on their 

Saviour's loving breast. 
I know his spirit feels no more this weary 

load of flesh, 
But his sleep is blest with endless dreams of 

joy forever fresh. 
I know the angels fold him close beneath 

their glittering wings, 
And soothe him with a song that breathes of 

heaven's divinest things. 
I know that we shall meet our babe, (his 

mother dear and I), 
Where God for aye shall wipe away all tear& 

from every eye. 

Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss. 

can never cease ; 
Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his 

is certain peace. 
It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls 

from bliss may sever, 
But if our own poor faith fail not, he must 

be ours forever. 
When we think of what our darling is, and 

what we still must be ; 
When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, 

and this world's misery : 
When we groan beneath this load of sin, 

and feel this grief and pain ; 
Oh ! we'd rather lose our other two, than 

have him here a°;ain. 



THE LIFE OF A CHILD FAIRY. 




|ER name was Sunbeam. She had lovely, waving, golden hair, and 
beautiful deep blue eyes, and such a cunning little mouth ; and she 
was three inches tall. Perhaps you think that fairies have no les- 
sons to learn, but in this country they had to learn the language 
of the birds and animals, so that they could talk with them. 
Sunbeam lived in the hollow trunk of an old tree. It was papered with 
the lightest green leaves that could be found. The rooms were separated 



by birch bark. 
34 



Every morning when Sunbeam arose from her bed 



O! 



£30 THE L1FE 0F A CHILD FAIRY. 

apple blossoms, she had to learn a lesson in the bird language ; but it was 
not hard, for her mother went with her and told her what they said. 
When her lesson was done she sprang away to meet her playmates — and 
oh ! what fun they had ! They made a swing out of a vine, and almost 
flew through the air. They sometimes jumped on a robin's back and had 
a ride. They played hide and seek in the birds' nests, and in the spring 
picked open the buds, and when they were tired, sat on the dandelions, or 
on a horse chestnut leaf, or in a full blown apple blossom. But if any one 
came into the woods they scampered away as fast as they could, for little 
fairies are very shy. 

The afternoon was much like the forenoon, but the evening was the 
pleasantest time of all. Every pleasant night just before dark, Sunbeam's 
mother dressed her in her apple-blossom dress, with two little lily-of-the- 
valley bells fastened iike tassels to her green sash of grass blades. Her 
slippers were made from blue violets and her hair was tied with the threads 
of blue forget-me-nots woven together. Her mother and her father were 
dressed in light green. A little after dark they started for their fairy 
haunt with fire-flies for lanterns. The haunt was' in the thickest part of 
the forest ; it was covered with moss, and a brook flowed through the 
centre of the enclosure. One hundred gentlemen fairies with their wives 
and children were waiting here. Each had a fire-fly lantern. Very soon, 
from the brush wood, out sprang two white mice, harnessed to a carriage 
made of dandelions with the stems so woven together that the flowers 
formed the outside. The inside was lined with white violets. In this 
chariot sat the queen of the Forget-me-not fairies (for there are different 
families of fairies). The queen was dressed in a robe made of a deep red 
tulip, and she had a sash of lilies of the valley. Her black hair was fas- 
tened with what looked like a pearl, but really was a tiny drop of water 
crystalized. Beside her rode her maids of honor with dresses of blue 
violets. The queen took her place upon the throne, and around her stood 
her maids of honor. The queen then began to sing, and the fairies danced 
to the music. This lasted till midnight, and then the fairies went home. 

You can easily imagine Sunbeam's life through the summer and 
autumn ; but if yon think she hid in her house all winter, you are mis- 
taken. In the autumn the fathers of the fairies had gathered the bright 
colored leaves, and the mothers had made them into warm winter dresses 
and cloaks. Sunbeam had a muff of swan's down. The great sport in 
winter was the queen's ball, to which all the fairies came. I wish I had 
time to tell you all about it, for it was Sunbeam's last appearance as a child 
iairy, as the next spring she was tall enough to be a full-grown fairy. 



NOT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD. 



531 



NOT ON TEE BATTLE-FIELD. 



JOHN PIERPONT. 




NO, no, — let me lie 
Not on a field of battle, when I die. 

Let not the iron tread 
Of the mad war-horse crush my 
helmed head ; 
Nor let the reeking knife, 
That I have drawn against a brother's 
life, 
Be in my hand whea death 
Thunders along, and tramples me beneath 

His heavy squadron's heels, 
Or gory felloes of his cannon's wheels. 

From such a dying bed, 
Though o'er it float the stripes of white and 
red, 
And the bald eagle brings 
The clustered stars upon his wide-spread 
wings, 
To sparkle in my sight, 
O, never let my spirit take her flight ! 

I know that beauty's eye 
Is all the brighter where gay pennants fly, 

And brazen helmets dance, 
And sunshine flashes on the lifted lance ; 

I know that bards have sung, 
And people shouted till the welkin rung, 

In honor of the brave 
Who on the battle-field have found a 
grave. 

1 know that o'er their bones 
Have grateful hands piled monumental stones. 

Some of those piles I've seen : 
The one at Lexington upon the green 

Where the first blood was shed, 
And to my country's independence led ; 

And others on our shore, 
The " Battle Monument" at Baltimore, 

And that on Bunker's Hill. 
Ay, and abroad a few more famous still : 

Thy " tomb " Themistocles, 
That looks out yet upon the Grecian seas, 

And which the waters kiss 



That issue from the gulf of Salamis ; 
And thine too have I seen, — 
Thy mound of earth, Patroclus, robed 
green, 




THE BATTLE MONUMENT. 

That like a natural knoll, 
Sheep climb and nibble over as they stroll, 

Watched by some turbaned boy, 
Upon the margin of the plain of Troy. 

Such honors grace the bed, 
I know, whereon the warrior lays his head, 

And hears, as life ebbs out, 
The conquered flying, and the conqueror's 
shout, 

But, as his eye grows dim, 
What is a column or a mound to him ? 

What to the parting soul, 
The mellow note of bugles ? What the roll 



532 



SAM WELLER'S VALENTINE. 



Of drums ? No, let me die 
Where the blue heaven bends o'er me lovingly, 

And the soft summer air, 
As it goes by me, stirs my thin, white 
hair, 

And from my forehead dries 
The death damp as it gathers, and the skies 

Seem waiting to receive 
My soul to their clear depths. Or let me leave 

The world, when round my bed 
Wife, children, weeping friends, are gathered, 

And the calm voice of prayer 
And holy hymning shall my soul prepare, 

To go and be at rest 
With kindred spirits, spirits who have blessed 

The human brotherhood 
By labors, cares, and counsels for their good. 

In my dying hour, 
When riches, fame, and honor, have no power 
To bear the spirit up, 



Or from my lips to turn aside the cup 

That all must drink at last, 
0, let me draw refreshment from the past ! 

Then let my soul run back, 
With peace and joy, along my earthly track, 

And see that all the seeds 
That I have scattered there in virtuous deeds, 

Have sprung up, and have given, 
Already, fruits of which to taste in heaven. 

And though no grassy mound 
Or granite pile says 'tis heroic ground 

Where my remains repose, 
Still will I hope, — vain hope, perhaps, — that 
those 

Whom I have striven to bless, — 
The wanderer reclaimed, the fatherless, — 

May stand around my grave, 
With the poor prisoner and the lowest slave, 

And breathe an humble prayer, 

That they may die like him whose bones are 

moldering there. 



SAM WELLER'S VALENTINE. 



CHARLES DICKENS. 



, ^ VE done now," said Sam, with slight embarrassment ; "I ve been a 
writin'." 

"So I see/' replied Mr. Weller. "Not to any young 'ooman, I 
%" hope, Sammy." 

f " Why, it's no use a sayin' it ain't," replied Sam. " It's a wal- 

I en tine." 
" A what ?" exclaimed Mr. Weller, apparently horror-stricken by the 
word. 

"A walentine," replied Sam. 

" Samivel, Samivel," said Mr. Weller, in reproachful accents, " I 
didn't 'think you'd ha' done it. Arter the warnin' you've had o' your 
father's wicious propensities; arter all I've said to you upon this here wery 
subject; arter actiwally seem' and bein' in the company o' your own 
mother-in-law, vich I should ha' thought was a moral lesson as no man 
could ever ha' forgotten to his dyin' day ! I didn't think you'd ha' done 
it, Sammy, I didn't think you'd ha' done it." These reflections were too 



SAM WELLER'S VALENTINE. 533 

much for the good old man ; he raised Sam's tumbler to his lips and drank 
off the contents. 

" Wot's the matter now ?" said Sam. 

" Nev'r mind, Sammy/' replied Mr. Weller, " it'll be a wery agonizin' 
trial to me at my time o' life, but I'm pretty tough, that's vun consolation, 
as the wery old turkey remarked ven the farmer said he vos afeerd he 
should be obliged to kill him for the London market." 

" Wot'll be a trial ?" inquired Sam. 

" To see you married, Sammy ; to see you a deluded wictim, and 
thinkin' in your innocence that it's all wery capital," replied Mr. Weller. 
" It's a dreadful trial to a father's feelin's, that 'ere, Sammy." 

" Nonsense," said Sam, " I ain't a goin' to get married, don't you fret 
yourself about that. I know you're a judge o' these things ; order in your 
pipe, an' I'll read you the letter — there !" 

Sam dipped his pen into the ink to be ready for any corrections, and 
began with a very theatrical air — 

« < Lovely ' " 

" Stop," said Mr. Weller, ringing the bell. " A double* glass o' the 
inwariable, my dear." 

" Very well, sir," replied the girl, who, with great quickness, appeared, 
vanished, returned, and disappeared. 

" They seem to know your ways here," observed Sam. 

u Yes," replied his father, " I've been here before, in my time. Go 
on, Sammy." 

" ' Lovely creetur',' " repeated Sam. 

" 'Taint in poetry, is it?" interposed the father. 

" No, no," replied Sam. 

" Wery glad to hear it," said Mr. Weller. " Poetry's unnat'ral. No 
man ever talked in poetry 'cept a beadle on boxin' day, or Warren's black- 
in' or Rowland's oil, or some o' them low fellows. Never you let yourself 
down to talk poetry, my boy. Begin again, Sammy." 

" Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with critical solemnity, and Sam once 
more commenced and read as follows : 

" ' Lovely creetur' i feel myself a damned ' " — 

" That ain't proper," said Mr. Weller, taking his pipe from his 
mouth. 

"No: it ain't damned," observed Sam, holding the letter up to the 
light, " it's 'shamed,' there's a blot there ; ' i feel myself ashamed.' " 

" Wery good," said Mr. Weller. " Go on." 

" ' Feel myself ashamed, and completely cir — .' I forget w.ot this 



534 SAM WELLER'S VALENTINE. 

'ere word is," said Sam, scratching his head with the pen, in vain attempts 
to remember. 

" Why don't you look at it, then ?" inquired Mr. Weller. 

"So I am a lookin' at it," replied Sam, " but there's another blot: 
here's a f c/ and a ' i,' and a 'd.' " 

" Circumwented, p'rhaps," suggested Mr. Weller. 

"No, it aint that," said Sam: " ' circumscribed,' that's it." 

" That aint as good a word as circumwented, Sammy," said Mr. 
Weller, gravely. 

"Think not?" said Sam. 

" Nothin' like it," replied his father. 

"But don't you think it means more?" inquired Sam. 

"Veil, p'rhaps it's a more tenderer word," said Mr. Weller, after a 
few moments' reflection. " Go on, Sammy." 

"'Feel myself ashamed and completely circumscribed in a dressin'' of 
you, for you are a nice gal and nothin' but it.' " 

" That's a wery pretty sentiment," said the elder Mr. Weller, removing 
his pipe to make way for the remark. 

" Yes, I think it's rayther good," observed Sam, highly nattered. 

"Wot I like in that 'ere style of writin'," said the elder Mr. Weller, 
" is, that there ain't no callin' names in it — no Wenuses, nor nothin' o' that 
kind; wot's the good o' callin' a young 'ooman a Wenus or a angel, 
Sammy?" 

"Ah! wot indeed?" replied Sam. 

" You might just as veil call her a griffin, or a unicorn, or a king's 
arms at once, which is wery veil known to be a col-lection o' fabulous 
animals," added Mr. Weller. 

" Just as well," replied Sam. 

" Drive on, Sammy," said Mr. Weller. 

Sam complied with the request, and proceeded as follows : his father 
continuing to smoke, with a mixed expression of wisdom and complacency, 
which was particularly edifying. 

" l Afore i see you i thought all women was alike.' " 

" So they are," observed the elder Mr. Weller, parenthetically. 

" ' But now,' " continued Sam, " ' now I find wot a reg'lar soft-headed, 
ink-red'lous turnip i must ha' been, for there ain't nobody like you, though 
i like you better than nothin' at all.' I thought it best to make that ray- 
ther strong," said Sam, looking up. 

Mr. Weller nodded approvingly, and Sam resumed. 



SAM WELLER'S VALENTINE. 535 

" ' So i take the privilidge of the day, Mary, my dear, — as the 
gen'lem'n in difficulties did, ven he valked out of a Sunday, — to tell you 
that the first and only time i see you your likeness wos took on my hart 
in much quicker time and brighter colors than ever a likeness was taken 
by the profeel macheen (wich p'rhaps you may have heerd on Mary my 
dear), altho' it does finish a portrait and put the frame and glass on com- 
plete with a hook at the end to hang it up by, and all in two minutes and 
a quarter.' " 

" I am afeerd that werges on the poetical, Sammy," said Mr. Weller, 
dubiously. 

" No it don't," replied Sam, reading on very quickly to avoid contest- 
ing the point. 

" ' Except of me Mary my dear as your walentine, and think over 
what I've said. My dear Mary I will now conclude.' That's all," said 
Sam. 

" That's rayther a sudden pull-up, ain't it, Sammy ?" inquired Mr. 
Weller. 

" Not a bit on it," said Sam : " she'll vish there wos more, and that's 
the great art o' letter writin'." 

" Well/' said Mr. Weller, " there's somethin' in that ; and I vish your 
Mother-in-law 'ud only conduct her conwersation on the same gen-teel 
principle. Ain't you a goin' to sign it?" 

" That's the difficulty," said Sam; " I don't know what to sign it." 

" Sign it — Veller," said the oldest surviving proprietor of that 
name. 

" Won't do," said Sam. " Never sign a walentine with your own 
name." 

" Sign it Pickvick then," said Mr. Weller ; "it's a wery good name, 
and a easy one to spell." 

" The wery thing," said Sam. " I could end with a werse: what do 
you think ?" 

"I don't like it, Sam," rejoined Mr. Weller. "I never know'd a 
respectable coachman as wrote poetry, 'cept one as made an affectin' copy 
o' werses the night afore he wos hung for a highway robbery, and he wos 
only a Cambervell man, so even that's no rule." 

But Sam was not to be dissuaded from the poetical idea that had 
occurred to him, so he signed the letter — 

" Your love-sick 
Pickwick." 



536 



SHERIDAN'S RIDE. 




SHERIDAN'S RIDE. 



THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 




JP from the South at break of day, 
Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, 
The affrighted air with a shudder 
bore, 
Like a herald in haste, to the chief- 
tain's door, 
The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar, 
Telling the battle was on once more, 
And Sheridan twenty miles away. 

And wider still those billows of war 
Thundered along the horizon's bar ; 
And louder yet into Winchester rolled 



The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, 
Making the blood of the listener cold, 
As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, 
And Sheridan twenty miles away. 

But there is a road from Winchester town, 

A good, broad highway leading down ; 

And there through the flush of the morning 

light, 
A steed as black as the steeds of night, 
Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight. 
As if he knew the terrible need, 
He stretched away at his utmost speed ; 



K)D. 



537 



Hills rose and fell, but his heart was gay, 
With Sheridan fifteen miles away. 

Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thunder- 
ing South, 

The dust, like smoke from the cannon's 
mouth ; 

Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and 
faster, 

Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. 

The heart of the steed, and the heart of the 
master 

Were beating like prisoners assaulting their 
walls, 

Impatient to be where the battle-field calls ; 

Every nerve of the charger was strained to 
full play, 

With Sheridan only ten miles away. 

Under his spurning feet, the road 
Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, 
And the landscape sped away behind 
Like an ocean flying before the wind, 
And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, 
Swept on, with his wild eye full of fire. 
But lo ! he is nearing his heart's desire ; 
He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, 
And Sheridan only five miles away. 



The first that the General saw were the groups 
Of stragglers, and the retreating troops : 
What was done, — what to do, — a glance told 

him both, 
And striking his spurs with a terrible oath, 
He dashed down the line, 'mid a storm of 

huzzas, 
And the wave of retreat checked its course 

there, because 
The sight of the master compelled it to pauie. 
With foam and with dust the black charger 

was gray ; 
By the flash of his eye, and his red nostril's 

play, 
He seemed to the whole great army to say, 
" I've brought you Sheridan all-the way, 
From Winchester down to save the day." 

Hurrah, hurrah for Sheridan ! 
Hurrah, hurrah for horse and man ! 
And when their statues are placed on high, 
Under the dome of the Union sky, — 
The American soldier's Temple of Fame, 
There with the glorious General's name 
Be it said in letters both bold and bright : 
" Here is the steed that saved the day 
By carrying Sheridan into the fight, 
From Winchester, — twenty miles away !" 



GOD. 



FROM THE RUSSIAN OF DERZHAVIN. 




THOU eternal One! whose presence 

bright 
AH space doth occupy, all motion 

guide ; 
Unchang'd through time's all-devasta- 
£ ting flight ! 

J Thou only God ! There is no God 
beside ! 
Being above all beings ! Three-in one ! . 
Whom none can comprehend, and none 

explore ; 
Who fill'st existence with Thyself alone ; 
Embracing all — supporting — ruling o'er — 
Being whom we call God — and know no 
more ! 



In its sublime research, philosophy 
May measure out the ocean deep — may 

count 
The sands, or the sun's rays — but God ! for 

Thee 
There is no weight nor measure ; — none can 

mount 
Up to Thy mysteries. Reason's brightest 

spark, 
Though kindled by Thy light, in vain would 

try 
To trace Thy counsels, infinite and dark ; 
And thought is lost ere thought can soar so 

high— 
E'en like past moments in eternity. 



538 



GOD. 



Thou from primeval nothingness didst call, 
First chaos, then existence ; — Lord ! on Thee 
Eternity had its foundation ; — all 
Sprung forth from Thee; — of light, joy, 

harmony, 
Sole origin ; — all life, all beauty, Thine. 
Thy word created all, and doth create ; 
Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine ; 
Thou art, and wert, and shalt be ! Glorious, 
Life-giving, life-sustaining Potentate ! 

Thy chains the unmeasured universe 

surround ; 
Upheld by Thee ; by Thee inspired with 

breath ! 
Thou the beginning with the end hast 

bound, 
And beautifully mingled life and death ! 
As sparks mount upward from the fiery blaze 
So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from 

Thee, 
And as the spangles in the sunny rays 
Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry 
Of heaven's bright army glitters in Thy 

praise. 

A million torches lighted by Thy hand 
Wander unwearied through the blue abyss ; 
They own Thy power, accomplish Thy com- 
mand, 
All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss. 
What shal] we call them ? Pyres of crystal 

light— 
A glorious company of golden streams — 
Lamps of celestial ether burning bright — 
Suns lighting systems with their joyful 

beams ? 
But Thou to these art as the noon to night. 

Yes ! as a drop of water in the sea, 
AH this magnificence in Thee is lost ; 
What are ten thousand worlds compared to 

Thee? 
And what am I then ? Heaven's unnum- 
bered host, 
Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed 
In all the glory of sublimest thought, 
Is but an atom in the balance weighed 
Against Thy greatness, — is a cipher brought 



Against infinity ! What am I then ? 

Naught ! 
Naught! But the effluence of Thy light 

Divine, 
Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom. 

too ; 
Yes, in my spirit doth Thy Spirit shine, 
As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew. 

Naught ! but I live, and on hope's pinions 

% 

Eager toward Thy presence ; for in Thee 

I live, and breathe, and dwell ; aspiring 

high 
Even to the throne of Thy Divinity, 
I am, God ! and surely Thou must be ! 
Thou art ! directing, guiding all ! Thou art ! 
Direct my understanding then to Thee. 
Control my spirit, guide my wandering 

heart ; 
Though but an atom midst immensity, 
Still I am something, fashioned by Thy 

hand ! 
I hold a middle rank, 'twixt heaven and 

earth, 
On the last verge of mortal being stand, 
Close to the realm where angels have their 

birth, 
Just on the boundaries of the spirit-land ! 
The chain of being is complete in me ; 
In me is matter's last gradation lost, 
And the next step is spirit — Deity ! 
I can command the lightning, and am dust ! 
A monarch, and a slave ; a worm, a god ! 
Whence came I here, and how ? so marvel- 

ously 
Constructed and conceived ? Unknown ! 

this clod 
Lives surely through some higher energy ; 
For from itself alone it could not be ! 
Creator, yes ! Thy wisdom and Thy word 
Created me ! Thou source of life and good ! 
Thou Spirit of my spirit, and my Lord ! 
Thy light, Thy love, in the bright plenitude. 
Filled me with an immortal soul to spring 
Over the abyss of death, and bade it wear 
The garments of eternal day, and wing 
Its heavenly flight beyond the little sphere, 
Even to its source — to Thee — its author there. 

thoughts ineffable J visions blest ! 



REBECCA DESCRIBES THE SIEGE TO IVANHOE. 



539 



Though worthless our conception all of Thee, 
Yet shall Thy shadowed image fill our breast, 
And waft its homage to Thy Deity. 
God! thus alone my lonely thoughts can 



Thus seek Thy presence — Being wise and 

good, 
Midst Thy vast works admire, obey, adore ; 
And when the tongue is eloquent no more, 
The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude. 



REBECCA DESCRIBES THE SIEGE TO IVANHOE. 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. 




OOK from the window once again, kind maiden, but beware that 



you are not marked by the archers beneath — Look out once more, 
and tell me if they yet advance to the storm." 

With patient courage, strengthened by the interval which she 
1 had employed in mental devotion, Eebecca again took post at the 
J lattice, sheltering herself, however, so as not to be visible from 
beneath. 

" What dost thou see, Rebecca ? " again demanded the wounded 
knight. 

"Nothing but the cloud of arrows flying so thick as to dazzle mine 
eyes, and to hide the bowmen who shoot them/' 

" That cannot endure," said Ivanhoe ; " if they press not right on to 
carry the castle by pure force of arms, the archery may avail but little 
against stone walls and bulwarks. Look for the Knight of the Fetterlock, 
fair Eebecca,, and see how he bears himself; for as the leader is, so will 
his followers be." 

" I see him not," said Rebecca. 

"Foul craven ! " exclaimed Ivanhoe ; "does he blench from the helm 
when the wind blows highest ? " 

u He blenches not ! he blenches not ! " said Rebecca, "I see him now ; 
he leads a body of men close under the outer barrier of the barbican. — 
They pull down the piles and palisades ; they hew down the barriers with 
axes. — His high black plume floats abroad over the throng, like a raven 
over the field of the slain. — They have made a breach in the barriers — 
they rush in — they are thrust back ! — Front-de-Bceuf heads the defen- 
ders ; I see his gigantic form above the press. They throng again to the 
breach, and the pass is disputed hand to hand, and man to man. God of 
J "> cob ! it is the meeting of two fierce tides — the conflict of two oceans 
moved by adverse winds! " 



540 



REBECCA DESCRIBES THE SIEGE TO 1VANHOE. 



She turned her head from the lattice, as if unable longer to endure a 
sight so terrible. 

"Look forth again, Rebecca," saidlvanhoe, mistaking the cause of her 
retiring ; " the 
archery must in 
a degree have 




ceased ; for they 
are now fighting 
hand to hand. — 
Look, there is 
now less dan- 
ger." 

Rebecca again 
looked forth and 
almost immedi- 
ately exclaimed, 
" Holy proph- 
ets of the law ! 
Front- de-Bceuf 
and the Black 
Knight fight on 
the beach hand 
to hand, amid 
the roar of their 
followers, who 
watch the prog- 
ress of the strife. 
Heaven strike 
with the cause 
of the oppressed 
and of the cap- 
tive!" She then 
uttered a loud 
shriek, and ex- 
claimed, "He is 
down ! — he is down ! " 

"Who is down ?" cried Ivanhoe. 

"The Black Knight," answered Rebecca, faintly; then instantly 
again shouted with joyful eagerness — " But no — but no ! — the name of the 
Lord of hosts be blessed ! — he is on foot again, and fights as if there were 



THE ANCIENT STEOFGHOLD. 



REBECCA DESCRIBES THE SIEGE TO IVANHOE. 541 

twenty men's strength in his single arm — His sword is broken — he snatches 
an axe from a yeoman — he presses Front-de-Bceuf with blow on blow — 
The giant stoops and totters like an oak under the steel of the woodman 
— he falls — he falls ! " 

" Front-de-Bceuf ? " exclaimed Ivanhoe. 

" Front-de-Bceuf ! " answered the Jewess; "his men rush to the 
rescue, headed by the haughty Templar — their united force compels the 
champion to pause — They drag Front-de-Bceuf within the walls." 

" The assailants have won the barriers, have they not ? " said 
Ivanhoe. 

"They have — they have! " exclaimed Rebecca "and they press the 
besieged hard upon the outer wall ; some plant ladders, some swarm like 
bees, and endeavor to ascend upon the shoulders of each other — down go 
stones, beams, and trunks of trees upon their heads, and as fast as they 
bear the wounded to the rear, fresh men supply their places in the assault. 
— Great God ! hast thou given men thine own image, that it should be 
thus cruelly defaced by the hands of their brethren ! " 

" Think not of that," said Ivanhoe ; " this is no time for such 
thoughts — Who yield ? — who push their way ? " 

" The ladders are thrown down," replied Rebecca, shuddering ; " the 
soldiers lie grovelling under them like crushed reptiles — The besieged 
have the better." 

"Saint George strike for us !" exclaimed the knight ; " do the false 
yeomen give way ? " 

"No ! " exclaimed Rebecca, " they bear themselves right yeomanly — 
the Black Knight approaches the postern with his huge axe — the thun- 
dering blows which he deals, you may hear them above all the din and 
shouts of the battle — Stones and beams are hailed down on the bold cham- 
pion — he regards them no more than if they were thistle-down or 
feathers ! " 

" By Saint John of Acre," said Ivanhoe, raising himself joyfully on 
his couch, " methought there was but one man in England that might do 
such a deed ! " 

"The postern gate shakes," continued Rebecca; "it crashes — it is 
splintered by his blows — they rush in — the outwork is won — Oh, God ! — 
they hurl the defenders from the battlements — they throw them into the 
moat — O men, if ye be indeed men, spare them that can resist no 
longer ! " 

" The bridge — the bridge which communicates with the castle — have 
they won that pass ? " exclaimed Ivanhoe. 



542 



THE LAST LEAF. 



"No," replied Rebecca, "the Templar has destroyed the plank on 
which they crossed — few of the defenders escaped with him into the castle 
— the shrieks and cries which you hear tell the fate of the others — Alas ! 
I see it is still more difficult to look upon victory than upon battle." 




THE LAST LEAF. 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 



SAW him once before, 
As he passed by the door ; 

And again 
The pavement stones resound 
As he totters o'er the ground 

"With his cane. 



They say that in his prime, 
Ere the pruning-knife of timi 

Cut him down, 
Not a better man was found 
By the crier on his round 

Through the town. 



JOHN JANKIN'S SERMON. 



o43 



iiui/ now he walks the streets, 


But now his nose is thin, 


And he looks at all he meets 


And it rests upon his chin, 


So forlorn ; 


Like a staff ; 


And he shakes his feeble head, 


And a crook is in his back, 


That it seems as if he said, 


And a melancholy crack 


" They are gone." 


In his laugh. 


The mossy marbles rest 


I know it is a sin 


On the lips that he has pressed 


For me to sit and grin 


In their bloom ; 


At him here, 


And the names he loved to hear 


But the old three-cornered hat, 


Have been carved for many a year 


And the breeches, — and all that, 


On the tomb. 


Are so queer ! 


My grandmamma has said — 


And if I should live to be 


Poor old lady ! she is dead 


The last leaf upon the tree 


Long ago — 


In the spring, 


That he had a Roman nose, 


Let them smile, as I do now, 


And his cheek was like a rose 


At the old forsaken bough 


In the snow. 


Where I cling. 



Ipl^HE minister said last night, says he, 
" Don't be afraid of givin' ; 
If your life ain't nothin' to other 
.folks, 
Why what's the use of livin' ?" 
And that's what I say to my wife, 

says I, 
'There's Brown, that mis'rable sin- 



JOHN JANKIN'S SERMON 



He'd sooner a beggar would starve, 
give 
A cent towards buyin' a dinner." 



than 



I tell you our minister's prime, he is, 

But I couldn't quite determine, 
When I heard him givin' it right and left, 

Just who was hit by the sermon. 
Of course there couldn't be no mistake, 

When he talked of long-winded prayin', 
For Peters and Johnson they sot and 
scowled 

At every word he was sayin*. 

And the minister he went on to say, 
" Ther's various kinds of cheatin', 



And religion's as good for every day 

As it is to bring to meetin'. 
I don't think much of a man that gives 

The loud Amens at my preachin', 
And spends his time the followin' week 

In cheatin' and overreachin'." 

I guess that dose was bitter 

For a man like Jones to swaller ; 
But I noticed he didn't open his mouth, 

Not once, after that, to holler. 
Hurrah, says I, for the minister — 

Of course I said it quiet — 
Give us some more of this open talk ; 

It's very refreshin' diet. 

The minister hit 'em every time ; 

And when he spoke of fashion, 
And a-riggin' out in bows and things, 

As woman's rulin' passion, 
And a-comin' to church to see the styles, 

I couldn't help a-winkin' 
And a nudgin' my wife, and, says I, " That's 
you," 

And I guess it sot her thinkin'. 



544. 



THE MODEL CHURCH. 



Says I to myself, that sermon's pat ; 




Go home," says he, " and find your fauHs 


But man is a queer creation ; 




Instead of huntin your brothers'. 


And I'm much afraid that most o' the folks 


Go home," he says, " and wear the coats 


Wouldn't take the application. 




You've tried to fit on others." 


Now, if he had said a word about 






My personal mode o' sinnin', 






I'd have gone to work to right myself, 




My wife she nudged, and Brown he winked. 


And not set there a-grinnin'. 




And there was lots o' smilin', 
And lots o' lookin' at our pew ; 


Just then the minister says, says he, 




It sot my blood a-bilin'. 


" And now I've come to the fellers 




Says I to myself, our minister 


Who've lost this shower by usin' 


their 


Is gettin' a little bitter ; 


friends 




I'll tell him when meetin's out. that J 


As a sort o' moral umbrellers. 




Ain't at all that kind of a critter. 



THE MODEL CHURCH. 



JOHN H. YATES. 




ELL wife, I've found the model church 

— I worshipped there to-day ! 
It made me think of good old times 

before my hair was gray. 
The meetin' house was fixed up more 

than they were years ago, 
But then I felt when I went in it 

wasn't built for show. 



The sexton didn't seat me away back by the 

door; 
He knew that I was old and deaf, as well as 

old and poor : 
He must have been a Christian, for he led me 

through 
The long aisle of that crowded church, to find 

a place and pew. 

I wish you'd heard that singin' — it had the 
old-time ring ; 

The preacher said, with trumpet voice, " Let 
all the people sing !" 

The tune was Coronation, and the music up- 
ward rolled, 

Till I thought I heard the angels striking all 
their harps of gold. 

My dealness seemed to melt away ; my spirit 
caught ihe fire ; 



I joined my feeble, trembling voice with that 
melodious choir, 

And sang as in my youthful days, " Let an- 
gels prostrate fall, 

Bring forth the royal diadem, and crown Hiii. 
Lord of all." 

I tell you, wife, it did me good to sing that 
hymn once more ; 

I felt like some wrecked mariner who gets a 
glimpse of shore ; . 

I almost wanted to lay down this weather- 
beaten form, 

And anchor in the blessed port forever from ' 
the storm. 

The preachin f Well, I can't just tell all the 
preacher said ; 

I know it wasn't writterj ; I know it wasn't 
read ; 

He hadn't time to read it, for the lightnin* of 
his eye 

Went flashin' along from pew to pew, nor pas- 
sed a sinner by. 

The sermon wasn't flowery, 'twas simple gos- 
pel truth ; 

It fitted poor old men like me, it fitted hope* 
ful youth. 



THE REST OF THE JUST. 



545 



'Twas full of consolation for weary hearts 


" Where congregations ne'er break up, and 


that bleed ; 


Sabbaths have no end." 


'Twas full of invitations to Christ, and not to 




creed. 


I hope to meet that minister — that congrega- 




tion too — 


The preacher made sin hideous in Gentiles 


In that dear home beyond the stars that shine 


and in Jews ; 


from heaven's blue. 


He shot the golden sentences down in the 


I doubt not I'll remember, beyond life's even- 


finest pews, 


ing gray, 


And — though I can't see very well — I saw 


That happy hour of worship in that model 


the falling tear 


church to-day. 


That told me hell was someways off, and heav- 




en very near. 


Dear wife, the fight will soon be fought, the 




victory be won ; 


How swift the golden moments fled within 


The shining goal is just ahead : the race is 


that holy place ! 


nearly run. 


How brightly beamed the light of heaven 


O'er the river we are nearin', they are throng- 


from every happy face ! 


in' to the shore 


Again I longed for that sweet time when 


To shout our safe arrival where the weary 


friend shall meet with friend, 


weep no more. 



THE REST OF THE JUST. 



, c^ , 



RICHARD BAXTER. 




)EST ! how sweet the sound ! It is melody to my ears ! It lies as a 
reviving cordial at my heart, and from thence sends forth lively 
spirits which beat through all the pulses of my soul ! Rest, not as 
the stone that rests on the earth, nor as this flesh shall rest in the 
i grave, nor such a rest as the carnal world desires. blessed rest ! 
J when we rest not day and night saying, " Holy, holy, holy, Lord 
God Almighty : " when we shall rest from sin, but not from worship; from 
suffering and sorrow, but not from joy ! blessed day ! when I shall rest 
with God ! when I shall rest in the bosom of my Lord ! when my perfect 
soul and body shall together perfectly enjoy the most perfect God ! when 
God, who is love itself, shall perfectly love me, and rest in this love to me, 
as I shall rest in my love to Him ; and rejoice over me with joy, and joy 
over me with singing, as I shall rejoice in Him ! 

This is that joy which was procured by sorrow, that crown which was 
procured by the Cross. My Lord wept that now my tears might be wiped 
away ; He bled that I might now rejoice ; he was forsaken that I might 
not now be forsook ; He then died that I might now live. free mercy, 
that can exalt so vile a wretch ! Free to me, though dear to Christ : free 
grace that hath chosen me, when thousands were forsaken. This is not 
35 



54,3 A PATRIOT'S LAST APPEAL. 



like our cottages of clay, our prisons, our earthly dwellings. This voice 
of joy is not like our old complaints, our impatient groans and sighs ; nor 
this melodious praise like the scoffs and revilings, or the oaths and curses, 
which we heard on earth. This body is not like that we had, nor this soul 
like the soul we had, nor this life like the life we lived. We have changed 
our place and state, our clothes and thoughts, our looks, language, and 
company. Before, a saint was weak and despised ; but now, how happy 
and glorious a thing is a saint ! Where is now their body of sin, which 
wearied themselves and those about them ? Where are now our different 
judgments, reproachful names, divided spirits, exasperated passions, strange 
looks, uncharitable censures ? Now are all of one judgment, of one name, 
of one heart, house and glory. sweet reconciliation ! happy union ! 



A PATRIOTS LAST APPEAL. 




ROBERT EMMET. 



jET no man dare, when I am dead, to charge me with dishonor. I 
would not have submitted to a foreign oppressor, for the same rea- 
son that I would resist the present domestic oppressor. In the 
dignity of freedom, I would have fought on the threshold of my 
country, and its enemy should only enter by passing over my life- 
less corpse. And am I, who lived but for my country, and who have sub- 
jected myself to the dangers of a jealous and watchful oppressor, and the 
bondage of the grave, only to give my countrymen their rights, and my 
country its independence — am I to be loaded with calumny, and not 
suffered to resent or repel it ? No, God forbid ! 

If the spirits of the illustrious dead participate in the concern and 
cares of those who are dear to them in this transitory life, ever-dear and 
venerable shade of my departed father, look down with scrutiny upon the 
conduct of your suffering son, and see if I have ever for a moment deviated 
from those principles of morality and patriotism which it was your care to 
instil into my youthful mind, and for which I am now to offer up my life. 
My lords, you are impatient for the sacrifice — the blood which you 
seek is not congealed by the artificial terrors that surround your victim ; 
it circulates warmly and unruffled through the channels which God created 
for nobler purposes, but which you are bent to destroy for purposes so 
grievous that they cry to Heaven. Be ye patient ! I have but a few 
words more to say. I am going to my cold and silent grave ; my lamp of 



THE LAW OF DEATH. 



547 



life is nearly extinguished; my race is run, the grave opens to receive 
me, and I sink into its bosom! I have but one request to ask at my 
departure from this world ; it is the charity of its silence ! Let no man 
write my epitaph; for as no man who knows my motives dare now 
vindicate them, let not prej udice or ignorance asperse them. Let them and 
me repose in obscurity and peace, and my tomb remain uninscribed, until 
other times and other men can do justice to my character. When my 
country takes her place among the nations of the earth — then, and not till 
then, let my epitaph be written. I have done. 



THE LA W OF DEATH. 



JOHN HAY. 



S^HE song of Kilvany. Fairest she 
3 In all the land of Savathi. 

She had one child, as sweet and gay 
And dear to her as the light of day. 
She was so young, and he so fair, 
The same bright eyes and the same 

dark hair, 
To see them by the blossomy way 
They seemed two children at their 
play. 

There came a death-dart from the sky, 
Kilvany saw her darling die. 
The glimmering shades his eye invades, 
Out of his cheeks the red bloom fades ; 
His warm heart feels the icy chill, f 

The round limbs shudder and are still. 
And yet Kilvany held him fast 
Long after life's last pulse was past, 
As if her kisses could restore 
The smile gone out forevermore. 

But when she saw her child was dead 
She scattered ashes on her head, 
And seized the small corpse, pale and sweet, 
And rusting wildly through the street, 
She sobbing fell at Buddha's feet. 

" Master ! all-helpful ! help me now ! 
Here at thy feet I humbly bow : 
Have mercy, Buddha ! help me now !" 
She groveled on the marble floor, 



And kissed the dead child o'er and o'er ; 
And suddenly upon the air 
There fell the answer to her prayer : 
" Bring me to-night a Lotus, tied 
With thread from a house where none has 
died." 

She rose and laughed with thankful joy, 
Sure that the God would save her boy. 
She found a Lotus by the stream ; 




She plucked it from its noonday dream, 
And then from door to door she fared, 
To ask what house by death was spared. 
Her heart grew cold to see the eyes 
Of all dilate with slow surprise : 



548 



WIDOW BEDOTT TO ELDER SNIFFLES. 



" Kilvany, thou hast lost thy head ; 
Nothing can help a child that's dead. 
There stands not by the Ganges' side 
A house where none hath ever died." 
Thus through the long and weary day, 
From every door she bore away, 
Within her heart, and on her arm, 
A heavy load, a deeper harm. 
By gates of gold and ivory, 
By wattled huts of poverty, 
The same refrain heard poor Kilvany, 



The living are few — the dead are many. 
The evening came, so still and fleet, 
And overtook her hurrying feet, 
And, heart-sick, by the sacred fane 
She fell, and prayed the God again. 

She sobbed and beat her bursting breast : 
" Ah ! thou hast mocked me ! Mightiest ! 
Lo ! I have wandered far and wide — 
There stands no house where none hath 
died." 



A SONG FOR HEARTH AND HOME. 



WILLIAM R. DURYEA. 




ARK is the night, and fitful and drear- 

Rushes the wind like the waves of 
the sea ; 
Little care I, as here I sit cheerily, 
Wife at my side and my baby on knee. 

King, king, crown me the king : 
Home is the kingdom, and Love is 
the king ! 



Flashes the firelight upon the dear faces, 
Dearer and dearer and onward we go, 
Forces the shadow behind us, and places 
Brightness around us with warmth in the 
glow. 
King, king, crown me the king : 
Home is the kingdom, and Love is the 
king ! 



Flashes the lovelight, increasing the glory, 
Beaming from bright eyes with warmth of 
the soul, 
Telling of trust and content the sweet story, 
Lifting the shadows that over us roll. 
King, king, crown me the king : 
Home is the kingdom and Love is the 
king ! 

\ 
Richer than miser with perishing treasure, 
Served with a service no conquest could 
bring ; 
Happy with fortune that words cannot meas- 
ure, 
Light-hearted I on the hearthstone can sing. 
King, king, crown me the king : 
Home is the kingdom, and Love is the 
king. 



WIDOW BEDOTT TO ELDER SNIFFLES. 




REVEREND sir, I do declare 
It drives me most to frenzy, 

To think of you a lying there 
Down sick with influenzy. 

A body'd thought it was enough 
To mourn your wife's departer, 

Without sich trouble as this ere 
To come a follerin' arter. 



But sickness and affliction 
Are sent by a wise creation, 

And always ought to be underwent 
By patience and resignation. 

I could to your bedside fly, 
And wipe your weeping eyes, 

And do my best to cheer you up, 
If 't wouldn't create surprise. 



THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. 



549 



It's a world of trouble we tarry in, 
But, Elder, don't despair ; 

That you may soon be movin' again 
Is constantly my prayer. 



Both sick and well, you may depend 

You'll never be forgot 
By your faithful and affectionate friend, 

Peiscilla Pool Bedott. 



THE LA UGH OF A CHILD. 



LOVE it, I love it, the laugh of a child, 
Now rippling and gentle, now merry 
and wild ; 

fp Ringing out on the air with its inno- 
cent gush, [hush ; 
Like the trill of a bird at the twilight's soft 



Floating off on the breeze, like the tones of a 

bell, 
Or the music that dwells on the heart of a 

shell; 
Oh ! the laugh of a child, so wild and so free, 
Is the merriest sound in the world for me. 




THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. 



SAMUEL WOODWORTH. 




SOW dear to this heart are the scenes 
of my childhood, 
When fond recollection presents 

them to view ! 
The orchard, the meadow, the deep- 
tangled wild-wood, 
And every loved spot which my in- 
fancy knew ; — 
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which 
stood by it, 



The bridge, and the rock where the cat- 
aract fell ; 

The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh 
it, 
And e'en the rude bucket which hung in 
the well. 

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound 
bucket, 

The moss-covered bucket which hung in the 
well. 



550 



DRESS REFORM. 



That moss-covered vessel I hail as a trea- 
sure; 
For often, at noon, when returned from the 
field, 
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, 
The purest and sweetest that nature can 
yield. 
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were 
glowing ! 
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it 
fell; 
Then soon, with the emblem of truth over- 
flowing, 
And dripping with coolness, it rose from 
the well ; 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well. 



How sweet from the green mossy brim to re- 
ceive it, 
As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my 
lips ! 
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to 
leave it, 
Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter 
sips. 
And now, far removed from the loved situa- 
tion, 
The tear of regret will intrusively swell, 
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, 
And sighs for the bucket which hangs in 
the well ; 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the 
well. 



DRESS REFORM. 



T. DE WITT TALMAGE. 




CONVENTION has recently been held in Vineland, attended by 
the women who are opposed to extravagance in dress. They 
propose, not only by formal resolution, but by personal example, 
to teach the world lessons of economy by wearing less adornment 
and dragging fewer yards of silk. We wish them all success, 
although we would have more confidence in the movement if so 
many of the delegates had not worn bloomer dresses. Moses makes war 
upon that style of apparel in Deuteronomy xxii. 5 : " The woman shall not 
wear that which pertaineth unto man." Nevertheless we favor every 
effort to stop the extravagant use of dry goods and millinery. 

We have, however, no sympathy with the implication that women are 
worse than men in this respect. Men wear all they can without interfer- 
ing with their locomotion, but man is such an awkward creature he cannot 
find any place on his body to hang a great many fineries. He could not 
get round in Wall Street with eight or ten flounces and a big handled 
parasol, and a mountain of back hair. Men wear less than women, not 
because they are more moral, but because they cannot stand it. As it is, 
many of our young men are padded to a superlative degree, and have 
corns and bunions on every separate toe from wearing tight shoes. 

Neither have we any sympathy with the implication that the present 



LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER; 



551 



is worse than the past in matters of dress. Compare the fashion-plates of 
the seventeenth century with the fashion-plates of the nineteenth, and you 
decide in favor of our day. The women of Isaiah's time beat anything 
now. Do we have the kangaroo fashion Isaiah speaks of — the daughters 
who walked forth with " stretched forth necks" ? Talk of hoops ! Isaiah 
speaks of women with " round tires like the moon." Do we have hot 
irons for curling our hair ? Isaiah speaks of " wimples and crisping pins." 
Do we sometimes wear glasses astride our nose ; not because we are near- 
sighted, but for beautincation ? Isaiah speaks of the " glasses, and the 
earrings, and the nose jewels." The dress of to-day is far more sensible 
than that of a hundred or a thousand years ago. 

But the largest room in the world is room for improvement, and we 
would cheer on those who would attempt reformation either in male or 
female attire. Meanwhile, we rejoice that so many of the pearls, and 
emeralds, and amethysts, and diamonds of the world are coming into the 
possession of Christian women. Who knows but the spirit of consecra- 
tion may some day come upon them, and it shall be again as it was in the 
time of Moses, that for the prosperity of the house of the Lord the women 
may bring their bracelets, and earrings, and tablets, and jewels ? The 
precious stones of earth will never have their proper place till they are set 
around the Pearl of Great Price. 



LORD ULLIN'S DA TIGHTER* 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 



S® CHIEFTAIN to the Highlands bound, 

Jj^fe Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry ! 
422§^ki And I'll give thee a silver pound 
To row us o'er the ferry." 



" Now who be ye, would cross Loch- 
gyle, 
This dark and stormy water ?" 
'' 0, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, 
And this Lord Ullin's daughter. 

" And fast before her father's men 
Three days we've fled together; 

For should he find us m the glen, 
My blood would stain the heather. 

" His horsemen hard behind us ride ; 
Should they our steps discover, 



Then who will cheer my bonny bride 
When they have slain her lover?"— 

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, 
"I'll go, my chief — I'm ready. 

It is not for your silver bright, 
But for your winsome lady." 

" And by my word ! the bonny bird 

In danger shall not tarry ; 
So though the waves are raging white, 

I'll row you o'er the ferry." 

By this the storm grew loud apace ; 

The water-wraith was shrieking ; 
And in the scowl of heaven each face 

Grew dark as they were speaking. 



552 



LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. 



But still as wilder blew the wind, 
And as the night grew drearer, 

Adown the glen rode armed men— 
Their trampling sounded nearer. 



The boat has left a stormy land, 

A stormy sea before her — 
When, oh ! too strong for human hand, 

The tempest gathered o'er her. 




" 0, haste thee, haste !" the lady cries ; 

" Though tempests round us gather ; 
I'll meet the raging of the skies, 

But not an angry father." 



And still they rowed amidst the roar 
Of waters fast prevailing ; — 

Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore ; 
His wrath was changed to wailing,. 



ANNABEL LEE. 



553 



For sore dismayed, through storm and shade 

His child he did discover ; 
One lovely hand she stretched for aid, 

And one was round her lover. 

*' Comeback ! come back !" he cried in grief, 
Across this stormy water ; 



" And I'll forgive your Highland chief, 
My daughter ! — Oh, my daughter !" 

'Twas vain : — the loud waves lashed the shore, 

Return or aid preventing ; 
The waters wild went o'er his child, 

And he was left lamenting. 



PER PACEM AD LUCEM, 



ADELAIDE ANNE PEOCTOE. 



DO not ask, O Lord ! that life may be 

A pleasant road ; 
I do not ask that Thou wouldst take 
from me 
Aught of its load ; 
J- I do not ask that flowers should always 
J spring 

Beneath my feet ; 
I know too well the poison and the sting 

Of things too sweet. 
Fcr one thing only, Lord, dear Lord ! I plead : 

Lead me aright — 
Though strength should falter, ind though 
heart should bleed — 

Through Peace to Light. 



I do not ask, Lord, that Thou shouldst 
shed 

Full radiance here ; 
Give but a ray of peace, that I may tread 

Without a fear. 

I do not ask my cross to understand, 

My way to see, — 
Better in darkness just to feel Thy hand, 

And follow Thee. 
Joy is like restless day, but peace divine 

Like quiet night. ■ 
Lead me, Lord, till perfect day shall 
shine, 

Through Peace to Light. 



ANNABEL LEE. 



EDGAR ALLAN POE. 



|S|JT was many and many a year ago, 
Mp In a kingdom by the sea, 
^m Tha.t a maiden lived, whom you may 
$\\h know, 

"<$ By the name of Annabel Lee ; 

| And this maiden she lived with no other 

J thought 

Than to love, and be loved by me. 

I was a child, and she was a child, 
In this kingdom by the sea ; 



But we loved with a love that was more than 
love, 
I and my Annabel Lee, — 
With a love that the winged seraphs of 
heaven 
Coveted her and me. 

And this was the reason that long ago, 

In this kingdom by the sea, 
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 

My beautiful Annabel Lee ; 



554 



THE FIRE-BELL'S STORY. 



So that her high-born kinsmen came, 

And bore her away from me, 
To shut her up in a sepulchre, 

In this kingdom by the sea. 

The angels, not so happy in heaven, 

Went envying her and me. 
Yes ! that was the reason (as all men know) 

In this kingdom by the sea, 
That the wind came out of the cloud by 
night, 

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 

But our love it was stronger by far than the 
love 
Of those who were older than we, 
Of many far wiser than we ; 



And neither the angels in heaven above, 
Nor the demons down under the sea, 

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 

For the moon never beams without bringing 
me dreams 
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, 
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright 
eyes 
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 
And so, all the night-tide I lie down by the 

side 
Of my darling, my darling, my life, and my 
bride, 
In her sepulchre there by the sea, 
In her tomb by the sounding sea. 



THE FIBE-BELLS STOBY. 



GEORGE L. CATLIN. 




\ONG — Dong — the bells rang out 
Over the housetops ; and then a shout 
Of "Fire!" came echoing up the 

street, 
With the sound of eager, hurrying 

feet. 
Dong — Dong — the sonorous peal 
Came mingled with clatter of engine wheel 
And whistle shrill, and horse's hoof ; 
And lo ! from the summit of yonder roof 
A flame bursts forth, with a sudden glare. 
Dong — Dong — on the midnight air 
The sound goes ringing out over the town ; 
And hundreds already are hurrying down, 
Through the narrow streets, with breathless 

speed 
Following whither the engines lead. 
Dong — Dong — and from windows high 
Startled ones peer at the ruddy sky, 
And still the warning loud doth swell 
From the brazen throat of the iron-tongued 

bell, 
Sending a shudder, and sending a start 
To many a home, and many a heart. 
Up in yon tenement, where the glare 



Shines dimly forth on the starlit air 
Through dingy windows ; where flame and 

smoke 
Already begin to singe and choke, 
See the affrighted ones look out 
In helpless terror, in horrible doubt, 
Begging for succor. Now behold 
The ladders, by arms so strong and bold, 
Are reared ; like squirrels the brave men climb 
To the topmost story. Indeed, 'twere time — 
" They all are saved !" said a voice below, 
And a shout of triumph went up. But no — 
" Not all — ah, no!" — 'twas a mother's shriek; 
The cry of a woman, agonized, weak, 
Yet nerved to strength by her deep woe's 

power, 
" Great God, my child!" — even strong men 

cower 
'Neath such a cry. " Oh, save my child! 1 ' 
She screamed in accents sorrowful, wild. 

Up the ladders, a dozen men 
Rushed in generous rivalry then, 
Bravely facing a terrible fate. 
Breathless the crowd below await. 



MOTHER'S VACANT CHAIR. 



555 



See ! There's one who has gained the sill 
Of yonder window. Now, with a will, 
He bursts the sash with his sturdy blow 
And it rattles down on the pave below. 
Now, he has disappeared from sight — 
Faces below are ashen and white, 
In that terrible moment. Then a cry 
Of joy goes up to the flame-lit sky — 
Goes up to welcome him back to life. 
God help him now in his terrible strife ! 
Once more he mounts the giddy sill, 
Cool and steady and fearless still ; 
Once more he grasps the ladder — see ! 



"What is it he holds so tenderly ? 
Thousands of tearful, upturned eyes 
Are watching him now ; and with eager cries 
And sobs and cheerings, the air is rent 
As he slowly retraces the long descent, 
And the child is saved! 

Ah ! ye who mourn 
For chivalry dead, in the days long gone, 
And prate of the valor of olden time, 
Remember this deed of love sublime, 
And know that knightly deeds, and bold, 
Are as plentiful now as in days of old. 



MOTHERS VACANT CHAIR. 



T. DE WITT TALMAGE. 



GO a little farther on in your house, and I find the mother's chair. It 
is very apt to be a rocking-chair. She had so many cares and 
troubles to soothe, that it must have rockers. I remember it well. 
It was an old chair, and the rockers were almost worn out, for I was 
the youngest, and the chair had rocked the whole family. It made 
a creaking noise as it moved, but there was music in the sound. It 
was just high enough to allow us children to put our heads into her lap. 
That was the bank where we deposited all our hurts and worries. Oh, 
what a chair that was. It was different from the father's chair — it was 
entirely different. You ask me how ? I cannot tell, but we all felt it was 
different. Perhaps there was about this chair more gentleness, more ten- 
derness, more grief when we had done wrong. When we were wayward, 
father scolded, but mother cried. It was a very wakeful chair. In the 
sick days of children other chairs could not keep awake ; that chair always 
kept awake — kept easily awake. That chair knew all the old lullabies, 
and all those wordless songs which mothers sing to their sick children — 
songs in which all pity and compassion and sympathetic influences are 
combined. That old chair has stopped rocking for a good many years. It 
may be set up in the loft or the garret, but it holds a queenly power yet. 
When at midnight you went into that grog-shop to get the intoxicating 
draught, did you not hear a voice that said, " My son, why go in there ? " 
and a louder than the boisterous encore of the theatre, a voice saying, 
" My son, what do you here ? " And when you went into the house of 



556 



THE CLOSING SCENE. 



sin, a voice saying, " What would your mother do if she knew you were 
here ? " and you were provoked at yourself, and you charged yourself with 
superstition and fanaticism, and your head got hot with your own thoughts, 
and you went home and you went to bed, and no sooner had you touched 
the bed than a voice said, " What a prayerless pillow ! " Man ! what is 
the matter ? This ! You are too near your mother's rocking chair. " Oh, 
pshaw ! '" you say, " there's nothing in that. I'm five hundred miles off 
from where I was born — I'm three thousand miles off from the Scotch kirk 
whose bell was the first music I ever heard." I cannot help that. You 
are too near your mother's rocking-chair. "Oh !" you say, " there can't 
be anything in that ; that chair has been vacant a great while." I cannot 
help that. It is all the mightier for that ; it is omnipotent, that vacant 
mother's chair. It whispers. It speaks. It weeps. It carols. It 
mourns. It prays. It warns. It thunders. A young man went off and 
broke his mother's heart, and while he was away from home his mother 
died, and the telegraph brought the son, and he came into the room where 
she lay, and looked upon her face, and cried out, " mother, mother, what 
your life could not do your death shall effect. This moment I give my 
heart to God." And he kept his promise. Another victory for the 
vacant chair. With reference to your mother, the words of my text were 
fulfilled ; " Thou shalt be missed because thy seat will be empty." 



THE CLOSING SCENE. 



T. BUCHANAN EEAD. 




M^ITHIN this sober realm of leafless 
trees, 
The russet year inhaled the dreamy- 
air ; 
Like some tanned reaper, in his hour 
of ease, 
When all the fields are lying brown and bare. 

The gray barns looking from their hazy hills 
O'er the dim waters widening in the vales, 

gent down the air a greeting to the mills, 
On the dull thunder of alternate flails. 

All sights were mellowed and all sounds 
subdued, 
The hills seemed further and the streams 
sang low, 



As in a dream the distant woodman hewed 
His winter log with many a muffled blow. 

The embattled forests, erewhile armed in gold, 
Their banners bright with every martial 
hue, 

Now stood, like some sad, beaten host of old, 
Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue. 

On slumberous wings the vulture tried his 
flight, 
The dove scarce heard his sighing mate's 
complaint, 
And, like a star slow drowning in the light, 
The village church-vane seemed to pale and 
faint. 



THE CLOSING SCENE. 



557 



The sentinel cock upon the hillside crew, — 
Crew thrice, and all was stiller than be- 
fore ; 

•Silent till some replying wanderer blew 
His alien horn, and then was heard no 



Where erst the jay ; within the elm's tall crest; 
Made garrulous trouble round the unfledged 
young: 



Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes, 
An early harvest and a plenteous year : 

Where every bird which charmed the vernal 
feast 
Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at 
morn, 
To warn the reapers of the rosy east — 
All now was songless, empty, and for- 
lorn. 




And where the oriole hung her swaying nest 
By every light wind like a censer swung ; 

Where sang the noisy masons of the eaves, 
The busy swallows circling ever near, 



Alone, from out the stubble piped the 

quail, 
And croaked the crow through all the 
dreary gloom ; 



558 



GRADATIM. 



Alone, the pheasant, drumming in the vale, 
Made echo to the distant cottage loom. 

There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers ; 
The spiders wove their thin shrouds night 
by night ; 
The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers, 
Sailed slowly by — passed noiseless out of 
sight. 

Amid all this, in this most cheerless air, 
And where the woodbine sheds upon the 
porch 

Its crimson leaves, as if the year stood there 
Firing the floor with his inverted torch — 

Amid all this, the centre of the scene, 

The white-haired matron, with monoto- 
nous tread, 
Plied her swift wheel, and with her joyless 
mien 
Sat like a Fate, and watched the flying 
thread. 

She had known sorrow. He had walked 
with her, 
Oft supped, and broke with her the ashen 
crust ; 



And in the dead leaves still she heard the- 
stir 
Of his black mantle trailing in the dust. 

While yet her cheek was bright with summer- 
bloom, 
Her country summoned, and she gave her 
all; 
And twice War bowed to her his sable plume — 
Re-gave the swords to rust upon her wall. 

Re-gave the swords — but not the hand that 
drew, 

And struck for liberty the dying blow ; 
Nor him who, to his sire and country true, 

Fell, mid the ranks of the invading foe. 

Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on,. 

Like the low murmur of a hive at noon ; 
Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone 

Breathed through her lips a sad and tremu- 
lous tune. 

At last the thread was snapped — her head. 
was bowed : 
Life dropped the distaff through his hands 
serene ; 
And loving neighbors smoothed her careful 
shroud, 
While Death and Winter closed the autumn. 
scene-. 



GRADATIM. 



J. G. HOLLAND. 




l|i^EAVEN is not reached at a single 
bound ; 
But we build the ladder by which 

we rise 
From the lowly earth to the 
vaulted skies, 
And we mount to the summit round 
by round. 

I count this thing to be grandly true ; 

That a noble deed is a step toward God — 
Lifting the soul from the common sod 

To a purer air and a broader view. 



We rise by things that are under our feet ; 
By what we have mastered of good and' 

gain; 
By the pride deposed and the passion slain, 
And the vanquished ills that we hourly 
meet. 

We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust, 
When the morning calls us to life and 

light; 
But our hearts grow weary, and ere the- 
night 
Our lives are trailing the sordid dust. 



THE CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON. 



559 



We hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray, 
And we think that we mount the air on 

wings 
Beyond the recall of sensual things, 

While our feet still cling to the heavy clay. 

Wings for the angels, but feet for the men ! 

We may borrow the wings to find the way ; 

We may hope, and resolve, and aspire, and 
pray ; 
But our feet must rise, or we fall again. 



Only in dreams is a ladder thrown 

From the weary earth to the sapphire 

walls ; 
But the dreams depart, and the vision falls, 

And the sleeper wakes on his pillow of stone. 

Heaven is not reached at a single bound ; 
But we build the ladder by which we rise 
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, 

And we mount to the summit round by 
round. 



THE CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON. 




THOMAS JEFFERSON. 



|IS mind was great and powerful without being of the very first order : 
his penetration strong, and so far as he saw, no judgment was ever 
sounder. It was slow in operation, but sure in conclusion. Hence 
the common remark of his officers of the advantage he derived from 
councils of war, where, hearing all suggestions, he selected what- 
ever was best; and certainly no general ever planned his battles more 
judiciously. But if deranged during the course of the action, if any 
member of his plan was dislocated by sudden circumstances, he was slow 
in a re-adjustment. The consequence was, that he often failed in the field, 
and rarely against an enemy in station, as at Boston and York. He was 
incapable of fear, meeting personal dangers with the calmest unconcern. 

Perhaps the strongest feature in his character was prudence, never 
acting until every circumstance, every consideration was maturely weighed; 
refraining if he saw a doubt, but when once decided, going through with 
his purpose, whatever obstacles opposed. His integrity was most pure, 
his justice the most inflexible I have ever known; no motives of interest 
or consanguinity, of friendship or hatred, being able to bias his decision. 
He was, indeed, in every sense of the word, a wise, a good, and a great 
man. His temper was naturally irritable and high-toned ; but reflection 
and resolution had obtained a firm and habitual ascendancy over it. If 
ever, however, it broke its bounds, he was most tremendous in his wrath. 
In his expenses he was honorable, but exact ; liberal in contributions to 
whatever promised utility ; but frowning and unyielding on all visionary 
projects, and all unworthy calls on his charity. His heart was not warm 
in its affections ; but he exactly calculated every man's value, and gave him a 



560 



MARY GARVIN. 



solid esteem proportioned to it. His person, you know was fine, his stature 
exactly what one would wish ; his deportment easy, erect, and noble, the 
best horseman of his age, and the most graceful figure that could be seen 
on horseback. Although in the circle of his friends, where he might be 
unreserved with safety, he took a free share in conversation, his colloquial 
talents were not above mediocrity, possessing neither copiousness of ideas, 
nor fluency of words. In public, when called on for a sudden opinion, he 
was unready, short, and embarrassed. Yet he wrote readily, rather dif- 
fusely, in an easy and correct style. This he had acquired by conversa- 
tion with the world, for his education was merely reading, writing, and 
common arithmetic, to which he added surveying at a later day. 

His time was employed in action chiefly, reading little, and that only 
in agriculture and English history. His correspondence became necessarily 
extensive, and with journalizing his agricultural proceedings, occupied most 
of his leisure hours within doors. On the whole his character was, in its 
mass, perfect, in nothing bad, in a few points indifferent ; and it may truly 
be said, that never did nature and fortune combine more completely to 
make a man great, and to place him in the same constellation with what- 
ever worthies have merited from man an everlasting remembrance. For 
his was the singular destiny and merit of leading the armies of his country 
successfully through an arduous war, for the establishment of its indepen- 
dence ; of conducting its councils through the birth of a government, new 
in its forms and principles, until it had settled down into a quiet and 
orderly train. 



MARY GARVIN. 



J. G. WHITTIER. 



H|ROM the heart of Waumbek Methna, 

from the lake that never fails, 
! Q£%> Falls the Saco in the green lap of 
' V Conway's intervales ; 
o There, in wild and virgin freshness, 
J its waters foam and flow, 
As when Darby Field first saw them — two 
hundred years ago. 

But, vexed in all its seaward course with 

bridges, dams and mills, 
How changed is Saco's stream, how lost its 

freedom of the hills, 



Since traveled Jocelyn, factor Vines, and 

stately Champernoon 
Heard on its banks the grey wolf's howl, the 

trumpet of the loon ! 



speed, 



tb 



With smoking axle hot with 
steeds of fire and steam, 

Wide-waked To-day leaves Yesterday behind 
him like a dream. 

Still from the hurrying train of Life fly back- 
wards, far and fast, 

The milestones of the fathers, the land-marka 
of the past. 



MARY GARVIN. 



561 



But human hearts remain unchanged ; the 

sorrow and the sin, 
The loves and hopes and fears of old, are to 

our own akin ; 
And if in tales our fathers told, the songs our 

mothers sung, 
Tradition wears a snowy beard, Romance is 

always young. 

sharp-lined man of traffic, on Saco's banks 
to-day ! 

mill-girl, watching late and long the shut- 
tle's restless play ! 

Let, for the once, a listening ear the working 
hand beguile, 

And lend my old Provincial tale, as suits, a 
tear or smile ! 



The evening gun had sounded from gray 

Fort Mary's walls ; 
Through the forest, like a wild beast, roared 

and plunged the Saco's falls ; 

And westward on the sea-wind, that damp 

and gusty grew, 
Over cedars darkening inland, the smokes of 

Spurwink blew. 

On the hearth of Farmer Garvin blazed the 

crackling walnut log ; 
Right and left sat dame and good man, and 

between them lav the dog, 




Head-on-paws, and tail slow wagging, and 

beside him on her mat, 
Sitting drowsy in the fire-light, winked and 

purred the mottled cat. 
36 



" Twenty years !" said Goodman Garvin, 
speaking sadly, under breath, 

And his gray head slowly shaking, as one 
who speaks of death. 

The good wife dropped her needles ; "It is 

twenty years to-day 
Since the Indians fell on Saco, and stole our 

child away." 

Then they sank into the silence, for each 

knew the other's thought, 
Of a great and common sorrow, and words 

were needed not. 

" Who knocks ?" cried Goodman Garvin. The 

door was open thrown ; 
On two strangers, man and maiden, cloaked 

and furred, the fire-light shone ; 

One with courteous gesture lifted the bear- 
skin from his head ; 

" Lives here Elkanah Garvin ?" " I am he," 
the goodman said. 



" Sit ye down, and dry and warm ye, for the 

night is chill with ram." 
And the goodwife drew the settle, and stirred 

the fire amain. 

The maid unclasped her cloak-hood, the fire- 
light glistened fair 

In her large, moist eyes, and over soft folds 
of dark brown hair. 

Dame Garvin looked upon her : " It is Mary's 

self I see ! 
Dear heart!" she cried, "now tell me, has 

my child come back to me ?" 

" My name indeed is Mary," said the stran 

ger, sobbing wild ; 
" Will you be to me a mother ? I am Mary 

Garvin's child! 

" She sleeps by wooded Simcoe, but on her 

dying day 
She bade my father take me to her kinsfolk 

far away. 

" And when the priest besought her to da 
me no such wrong, 



562 



MARY GARVIN. 



She said, 'May God forgive me 
closed my heart too long. 



I hi 



" ' When I hid me from my father, and shut 

out my mother's call, 
I sinned against those dear ones, and the 

Father ot us all. 

" ' Christ's love rebukes no home-love, breaks 

no tie of kin apart ; 
Better heresy in doctrine, than heresy of 

heart. 



Tell me not the Church must censure 
who wept the cross beside 



she 



.Never made her own flesh strangers, nor the 
claims of blood denied : 



'• Amen !" the old man answered, as he 

brushed a tear away, 
And, kneeling by the hearthstone, said, with 

reverence, " Let us pray," 

All its Oriental symbols, and its Hebrew 

paraphrase, 
Warm with earnest life and feeling, rose his 

prayer of love and praise. 

But he started at beholding, as he rose from 

off his knee, 
The stranger cross his forehead with the sign 

of Papistrie. 



What is this ?" cried Farmer Garvin, 
an English Christian's home 



Is 




" ' And if she who wronged her parents with 

her child atones to them, 
Earthly daughter, Heavenly mother ! thou 

at least wilt not condemn !' 

" So, upon her death-bed lying, my blessed 

mother spake ; 
As we come to do her bidding, so receive us 

for her 



" God be praised !" said Goodwife Garvin ; 

" He taketh and he gives ; 
He woundeth, but he healeth ; in her child 

our daughter lives!" 



A chapel or a mass-house, that you make the 
sign of Rome ?" 

Then the young girl knelt beside him, kissed 
his trembling hand, and cried : 

" 0, forbear to chide, my father ; in that 
faith my mother died ! 

" On her wooden cross at Simcoe the dews 

and sunshine fall, 
As they fell on Spur wink's graveyard ; and 

the dear God watches all !" 



OUR DEBT TO IRVING. 



563 



The old man stroked the fair head that rested 

on his knee ; 
"Your words, dear child," he answered, "are 

God's rebuke to me. 

" Creed and rite perchance may differ, yet our 

faith and hope be one. 
Let me be your father's father, let him be to 

me a son." 

When the horn-, on Sabbath morning, through 

the still and frosty air, 
From Spurwink, Pool, and Black Point, 

called to sermon and to prayer, 

To the goodly house of worship, where, in 

order due and fit, 
As by public vote directed, classed and 

ranked, the people sit; 

Mistress first and goodwife after, clerkly 

squire before the clown, 
From the brave coat lace embroidered, to the 

gray frock shading down ; 

From the pulpit read the preacher, — " Good- 
man Garvin and his wife 

Fain would thank the Lord, whose kindness 
hath followed them through life, 



" For the great and crowning mercy, that 
their daughter, from the wild, 

Where she rests (they hope in God's peace), 
has sent to them her child ; 

" And the prayers of all God's people they 

ask, that they may prove 
Not unworthy, through their weakness, of 

such special proof of love." 

As the preacher prayed, uprising, the aged 

couple stood, 
And the fair Canadian also, in her modest 

maidenhood. 

Thought the elders, grave and doubting, " She 

is Papist born and bred "; 
Thought the young men, " 'Tis an angel in 

Mary Garvin's stead !" 




OUR DEBT fO IRVING. 



CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER. 



Mz- 



FpHE service that Irving rendered to American letters no critic dis- 
putes, nor is there any question of our national indebtedness to 
him for investing a crude and new land with the enduring charms 
of romance and tradition. In this respect, our obligation to him 
is that of Scotland to Scott and Burns ; and it is an obligation 
due only, in all history, to here and there a fortunate creator to 
whose genius opportunity is kind. The Knickerbocker Legend and the 
romance with which Irving has invested the Hudson are a priceless legacy ; 
and this would remain an imperishable possession in popular tradition if 
the literature creating it were destroyed. His position in American litera- 




564 OUR DEBT TO IRVING. 



ture, or in that of the English tongue, will be determined only by the 
slow settling of opinion, which no critic can foretell, and the operation of 
which no criticism seems able to explain. I venture to believe, however, 
that the verdict will not be in accord with much of the present prevalent 
criticism. 

Irving was always the literary man ; he had the habits, the idiosyn- 
crasies of the literary man. I mean that he regarded life not from the 
philanthropic, the economic, the political, the philosophic, the metaphy- 
sic, the scientific or the theologic, but purely from the literary point of 
view. 

He belongs to that class of which Johnson and Goldsmith are perhaps 
as good types as any, and to which America has added very few. The 
literary point of view is taken by few in any generation ; it may seem to 
the world of very little consequence in the pressure of all the complex 
interests of life, and it may even seem trivial amid the tremendous ener- 
gies applied to immediate affairs; but it is the point of view that 
endures ; if its creations do not mould human life, like the Roman law, 
they remain to charm and civilize, like the poems of Horace. You must 
not ask more of them than that. 

And this leads me to speak of Irving's moral quality, which I cannot 
bring myself to exclude from a literary estimate, even in the face of the 
current gospel of art for art's sake. There is something that made Scott 
and Irving personally loved by the millions of their readers, who had only 
the dimmest ideas of their personality. This was some quality perceived 
in what they wrote. Each one can define it for himself; there it is, and I 
do not see why it is not as integral a part of the authors — an element in 
the estimate of their future position — as what we term their intellect, their 
knowledge, their skill, or their art. However you rate it, you cannot 
account for Irving's influence in the world without it. In his tender tri- 
bute to Irving, the great-hearted Thackeray, who saw as clearly as anybody, 
the place of mere literary art in the sum total of life, quoted the dying 
words of Scott to Lockhart, " Be a good man, my dear." We know well 
enough that the great author of " The Newcomes " and the great author 
of " The Heart of Midlothian " recognized the abiding value in literature 
of integrity, sincerity, purity, charity, faith. These are beneficences ; and 
Irving's literature, walk round it and measure it by whatever critical in- 
struments you will, is a beneficent literature. The author loved good women 
and little children and a pure life; he had faith in his fellow-men, a kindly 
sympathy with the lowest, without any subservience to the highest ; he 
retained a belief in the possibility of chivalrous actions, and did not care 



THE GLADIATOR. 



565 



to envelop them in a cynical suspicion ; he was an author still capable of 
an enthusiasm. His books are wholesome, full of sweetness and charm, of 
humor without any sting, of amusement without any stain ; and their 
more solid qualities are marred by neither pedantry nor pretension. 



THE GLADIATOR. 




J. A. JONES. 



1|HEY led a lion from his den, 

The lord of Afric's sun-scorched 
plain ; 
And there he stood, stern foe of 
men, 

«f And shook his flowing mane. 
J There's not of all Rome's heroes, ten 

That dare abide this game. 
His bright eye naught of lightning lacked ; 
His voice was like the cataract. 

They brought a dark-haired man along, 
Whose limbs with gyves of brass were 
bound ; 

Youthful he seemed, and bold, and strong, 
And yet unscathed of wound. 

Blithely he stepped among the throng, 
And careless threw around 

A dark eye, such as courts the path 

Of him who braves a Dacian's wrath. 

Then shouted the plebeian crowd, — 

Rung the glad galleries with the sound ; 

And from the throne there spake aloud 
A voice, — " Be the bold man unbound ! 

And, by Rome's sceptre, yet unbowed, 
By Rome, earth's monarch crowned, 

Who dares the bold, the unequal strife, 

Though doomed to death, shall save his life." 

Joy was upon that dark man's face : 
And thus, with laughing eye, spake he :. 

" Loose ye the lord of Zaara's waste, 
And let my arms be free : 

' He has a martial heart,' thou sayest ; 
But oh ! who will not be 

A hero, when he fights for life, 

For home and country, babes and wife? 



" And thus I for the strife prepare : 
The Thracian falchion to me bring, 

But ask th' imperial leave to spare 
The shield, — a useless thing, 

Were I a Samnite's rage to dare, 
Then o'er me would I fling 

The broad orb ; but to lion's wrath 

The shield were but a sword of lath." 

And he has bared his shining blade, 
And springs he on the shaggy foe ; 

Dreadful the strife, but briefly played ; — 
The desert-king lies low : 

His long and loud death-howl is made ; 
And there must end the show. 

And when the multitude were calm, 

The favorite freedman took the palm. 

" Kneel down, Rome's emperor beside !" 
He knelt, that dark man ; — o'er his brow 

Was thrown a wreath in crimson dyed ; 
And fair words gild it now : 

" Thou art the bravest youth that ever tries 
To lay a lion low ; 

And from our presence forth thou go'st 

To lead the Dacians of our host." 

Then flushed his cheek, but not with pride, 
And grieved and gloomily spake he : 

" My cabin stands where blithely glide 
Proud Danube's waters to the sea : 

I have a young and blooming bride, 
And I have children three : — 

No Roman wealth or rank can give 

Such joy as in their arms to live. 

" My wife sits at the cabin door, 

With throbbing heart and swollen eyes ; — 



566 



THE RIVER PATH. 



While tears her cheek are coursing o'er, 


Without their sire's protecting care ; 


She speaks of sundered ties ; 


And I would chase the griefs away 


She bids my tender babes deplore 


Which cloud my wedded fair." 


The death their father dies ; 


The monarch spoke ; the guards obey ; 


She tells these jewels of ray home, 


The gates unclosed are ; 


I bleed to please the rout of Rome 


He's gone ! No golden bribes divide 


I cannot let those cherubs stray 


The Dacian from his babes and bride. 




THE RIVER PATH. 




JOHN G. WHITTIER. 



pO bird song floated down the hill, 
|d The tangled bank below was still ; 
No rustle from the birchen stem, 
No ripple from the water's hem. 

The dusk of twilight round us grew. 
We felt the falling of the dew, 
For from us, ere the day was done, 
The wooded hills shut out the sun. 

But on the river's farthest side 
We saw the hill-tops, glorified, — 
A tender glow, exceeding fair, 
A dream of day without its glare. 



With us the damp, the chill, the gloom : 
With them the sunset's rosy bloom ; 
While dark, through willowy vistas seen. 
The river rolled in shade between. 

From out the darkness where we trod, 
We gazed upon those hills of God, 
Whose light seemed not of moon or sun. 
We spake not, but our thought was one. 

We paused, as if from that bright shore 
Beckoned our dear ones gone before ; 
And stilled our beating hearts to hear 
The voices lost to mortal ear ! 



THE CROWDED STREETS. 



567 



Sudden our pathway turned from night ; 
The hills swung open to the light; 
Through their green gates the sunshine 

showed, 
A long, slant splendor downward flowed. 



Down glade and glen and bank it rolled; 
It bridged and shaded stream with gold ; 
K And borne on piers of mist, allied 
The shadowy with the sunlit side. 



" So," prayed we, " when our feet draw near 
The river dark, with mortal fear, 
And the night cometh chill with dew, 
Father ! let thy light break through. 

" So let the hills of doubt divide, 

So bridge with faith the sunless tide ! 

So let the eyes that fail on earth 

On thy eternal hills look forth ; i 

And in thy beckoning angels know 

The dear ones whom we loved below !" 



DOT LAMBS WHAT MARY HAF GOT. 



||«||i|£ARY haf got a leetle lambs already ; 
Dose vool vos vite like shnow ; 




Und efery times dot Mary did vend oud, 
Dot lambs vent also out, wid Mary. 

Dot lambs dit follow Mary von day of der 
school-house, 
Vich vos obbosition to der rules of her 
school-master ; 
Also, vich it did caused dose schillen to smile 
out loud, 
Ven dey did saw dose lambs on der insides 
ov der school-house. 



Und so dot school-master dit kick der lambs 
gwick oud ; 
Likewise dot lambs dit loaf around on der 
outsides, 
Und did shoo der flies mit his tail off 
patiently aboud — 
Until Mary did come also from dot school- 
house oud. 

Und den dot lambs did run right away gwick 
to Mary, 
Und dit make his het gwick on Mary's 
arms, 
Like he would said, " I don't was schared, 
Mary would kept me from droubles ena- 
how !" 

" Vot vos der reason aboud it, of dot lambs 
und Mary ?" 
Dose schillen did ask it dot school-master : 
" Veil, don'd you know it, dot Mary lofe 
dose lambs already?" 
Dot school-master did said. 



THE CROWDED STREETS. 




WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 



;ET me move slowly through the street, 
[I Filled with an ever-shifting train, 
422^3 Amid the sound of steps that beat 

The murmuring walks like autumn 



J 



How fast the flitting figures come ; 

The mild, the fierce, the stony face — 
Some bright, with thoughtless smiles, and 
some 

Where secret tears have k-ft their trace. 



568 



JERUSALEM BY MOONLIGHT. 



They pass to toil, to strife, to rest — 
To halls in which the feast is spread — 

To chambers where the funeral guest 
In silence sits beside the bed. 

And some to happy homes repair, 

Where children pressing cheek to cheek, 

"With mute caresses shall declare 
The tenderness they cannot speak. 

And some who walk in calmness here, 
Shall shudder as they reach the door 

Where one who made their dwelling dear, 
Its flower, its light, is seen no more. 

/outh, with pale cheek and tender frame, 
And dreams of greatness in thine eye, 

Go'st thou to build an early name, 
Or early in the task to die? 

Keen son of trade, with eager brow, 
Who is now fluttering in thy snare, 



Thy golden fortunes tower they now, 
Or melt the glittering spires in air ? 

Who of this crowd to-night shall tread 
The dance till daylight gleams again ? 

To sorrow o'er the untimely dead? 
Who writhe in throes of mortal pain ? 

Some, famine struck, shall think how long 
The cold, dark hours, how slow the light ; 

And some, who flaunt amid the throng, 
Shall hide in dens of shame to-night. 

Each where his tasks or pleasure call, 
They pass and heed each other not ; 

There is one who heeds, who holds them all 
In His large love and boundless thought. 

These struggling tides of life that seem 
In wayward, aimless course to tend, 

Are eddies of the mighty stream 
That rolls to its appointed end. 



JER USALEM B Y MOONLIGHT. 



BENJAMIN DISRAELI. 



fSjjpHE broad moon lingers on the summit of Mount Olivet, but its beam 
yjpy has long left the garden of Gethsemane and the tomb of Absalom, 
-^0^ the waters of Kedron and the, dark abyss of Jehoshaphat. Full 
| falls its splendor, however, on the opposite city, vivid and denned 
I in its silvery blaze. A lofty wall, with turrets and towers, and fre- 
quent gates, undulates with the unequal ground which it covers, as it en- 
circles the lost capital of Jehovah. It is a city of hills, far more famous 
than those of Eome; for all Europe has heard of Sion and of Calvary, while 
the Arab and the Assyrian, and the tribes and nations beyond, are igno- 
rant of the Capitolian and Aventine Mounts. 

The broad steep of Sion, crowned with the tower of David; nearer still, 
Mount Moriah, with the gorgeous temple of the God of Abraham, but built, 
alas ! by the child of Hagar, and not by Sarah's chosen one ; close to its 
cedars and its cypresses, its lofty spires and airy arches, the moonlight falls 
upon Bethesda's pool ; farther on, entered by the gate of St. Stephen, the 
eye, though 'tis the noon of night, traces with ease the Street of Grief, a 
long, winding ascent to a vast cupolaed pile that now covers Calvary, called 
the Street of Grief because there the most illustrious of the human as well 



JERUSALEM BY MOONLIGHT. 569 

as of the Hebrew race, the descendant of King David, and the divine Son 
of the most favored of women, twice sank under that burden of suffering 
and shame, which is now throughout all Christendom the emblem of triumph 
and of honor ; passing over groups and masses of houses built of stone, with 
terraced roofs, or surmounted with small domes, we reach the hill of Salem, 
where Melchisedeck built his mystic citadel ; and still remains the hill of 
Scopas, where Titus gazed upon Jerusalem on the eve of his final assault. 
Titus destroyed the temple. The religion of Judea has in turn subverted 
the fanes which were raised to his father and to himself in their imperial 
capital ; and the God of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob, is now worshipped 
before every altar in Kome. 

The moon has sunk behind the Mount of Olives, and the stars in the 
darker sky shine doubly bright over the sacred city. The all-pervading 
stillness is broken by a breeze that seems to have traveled over the plain of 
Sharon from the sea. It wails among the tombs, and sighs among the cypress 
groves. The palm-tree trembles as it passes, as if it were a spirit of woe. 

Is it the breeze that has traveled over the plain of Sharon from the 
sea? Or is it the haunting voice of prophets mourning over the city that 
they could not save ? Their spirits surely would linger on the land where 
their Creator had deigned to dwell, and over whose impending fate Omni- 
potence had shed human tears. Who can but believe that, at the midnight 
hour, from the summit of the Ascension, the great departed of Israel as- 
semble to gaze upon the battlements of their mystic city ? There might 
be counted heroes and sages, who need shrink from no rivalry with the 
brightest and the wisest of other lands ; but the law-giver of the time of 
the Pharaohs, whose laws are still obeyed ; the monarch whose reign has 
ceased for three thousand years, but whose wisdom is a proverb in all 
nations of the earth ; the teacher whose doctrines have modeled civilized 
Europe ; the greatest of legislators, the greatest of administrators, and 
the greatest of reformers ; what race, extinct or living, can produce three 
such men as these ? 

The last light is extinguished in the village of Bethany. The wailing 
breeze has become a moaning wind ; a white film spreads over the purple 
sky ; the stars are veiled, the stars are hid ; all becomes as dark as the 
waters of Kedron and the valley of Jehoshaphat. The tower of David 
merges into obscurity ; no longer glitter the minarets of the mosque of 
Omar ; Bethesda's angelic waters, the gate of Stephen, the street of sacred 
sorrow, the hill of Salem, and the heights of Scopas, can no longer be dis- 
cerned. Alone in the increasing darkness, while the very line of the walls 
gradually eludes the eye, the church of the Holy Sepulchre is a beacon-light. 



570 



BATTLE OF LOOKOUT MOUNTAIN. 




BATTLE OF LOOKOUT MOUNTAIN. 



GEORGE H. BOKER. 



ppIVE me but two brigades," said 
Hooker, frowning at fortified 
Lookout, 
' And I'll engage to sweep yon 
mountain clear of that mocking 
rebel rout !" 




At early morning came an order that set the 

general's face aglow ; 
" Now," said he to his staff, " draw out my 

soldiers. Grant says that I may go !" 
Hither and^ thither dash'd each eager colonel 

to join his regiment, 



BATTLE OF LOOKOUT MOUNTAIN. 



571 



While a low rumor of the daring purpose ran 
on from tent to tent ; 

For the long-roll was sounded in the valley, 
and the keen trumpet's bray, 

And the wild laughter of the swarthy veter- 
ans, who cried, "We fight to-day!" 

The solid tramp of infantry, the rumble of 

the great jolting gun, 
The sharp, clear order, and the fierce steeds 

neighing, "Why's not the fight begun ?" — 
All these plain harbingers of sudden conflict 

broke on the startled ear; 
And, last, arose a sound that made your blood 

leap — -the ringing battle cheer. 

The lower works were carried at one onset. 
Like a vast roaring sea 

Of lead and fire, our soldiers from the trench- 
es swept out the enemy ; 

And we could see the gray coats swarming up 
from the mountain's leafy base, 

To join their comrades in the higher fastness 
— for life or death the race ! 

Then our long line went winding round the 

mountain, in a huge serpent track, 
And the slant sun upon it flash'd and glim- 

mer'd, as on a dragon's back. 
Higher and higher the column's head push'd 

onward, ere the rear moved a man ; 
And soon the skirmish-lines their straggling 

volleys and single shots began. 

Then the bald head of Lookout flamed and 
bellow'd, and all its batteries woke, 

And down the mountain pour'd the bomb- 
shells, puffing into our eyes their smoke ; 

And balls and grape-shot rained upon our col- 
umn, that bore the angry shower 

As if it were no more than that soft dropping 
which scarcely stirs the flower. 

Oh, glorious courage that inspires the hero, 
and runs through all his men ! 

The heart that fail'd beside the Rappahan- 
nock, it was itself again ! 

The star that circumstance and jealous faction 
shrouded in envious night, 

Here shone with all the splendor of its na- 
ture, and with a freer flight ! 



Hark ! hark ! there go the well-known crash- 
ing volleys, the long-continued roar, 

That swells and falls, but never ceases wholly, 
until the fight is o'er. 

Up towards the crystal gates of heaven ascen- 
ding, the mortal tempests beat, 

As if they sought to try their cause together 
before God's very feet ! 

We saw our troops had gain'd a footing al- 
most beneath the topmost ledge, 

And back and forth the rival lines went surg- 
ing upon the dizzy edge. 

Sometimes we saw our men fall backward 
slowly, and groaned in our despair ; 

Or cheer'd when now and then a stricken 
rebel plunged out in open air, 

Down, down, a thousand empty fathoms drop- 
ping, his God alone knows where ! 



At eve, thick haze upon the mountain gath- 
ered, with rising smoke stain'd black, 

And not a glimpse of the contending armies 
shone through the swirling rack. 

Night fell o'er all ; but still they flash'd their 
lightnings and rolled their thunders loud, 

Though no man knew upon what side was 
going that battle in the cloud. 

Night! what a night! — of anxious thought 
and wonder ; but still no tidings came 

From the bare summit of the trembling moun- 
tain, still wrapp'd in mist and flame. 

But towards the sleepless dawn, stillness, more 
dreadful than the fierce sound of war, 

Settled o'er Nature, as if she stood breathless 
before the morning star. 

As the sun rose, dense clouds of smoky vapor 

boil'd from the valley's deeps, 
Dragging their torn and ragged edges slowly 

up through the tree-clad steeps, 
And rose and rose, till Lookout, like a vision, 

above us grandly stood, 
And over his black crags and storm-blanch'd 

headlands burst the warm, golden flood. 

Thousands of eyes were fix'd upon the moun- 
tain, and thousands held their breath, 

And the vast army, in the valley watching 
seem'd touched with sudden death. 



572 



JOHN AND TIBBIE DAVISON'S DISPUTE. 



High o'er us so?,red great Lookout, robed in 

purple, a glory on his face, 
A human meaning in his hard, calm features, 

beneath that heavenly grace. 

Out on a crag walk'd something — What ? an 
eagle that treads yon giddy height ? 

Surely no man ! But still he clamber'd for- 
ward into the full, rich light ; 

Then up he started, with a sudden motion, 
and from the blazing crag 

Flung to the morning breeze and sunny ra- 
diance the dear old starry flag ! 

Ah ! then what follow'd ? Scarr'd and war- 
worn soldiers, like girls, flush'd through 
their tan, 



And down the thousand wrinkles of the bat- 
tles a thousand tear-drops ran ; 

Men seized each other in return'd embraces, 
and sobbed for very love ; 

A spirit which made all that moment broth- 
ers seem'd falling from above. 



And, as we gazed, around the mountain's 

summit our glittering files appear'd ; 
Into the rebel works we saw them marching ; 

and we — we cheer'd, we cheer'd ! 
And they above waved all their flags before 

us, and join'd our frantic shout, 
Standing, like demigods, in light and triumph, 

upon their own Lookout ! 



JOHN AND TIBBIE DAVISON'S DISPUTE. 



ROBERT LEIGHTON. 



rfc 




OHN Davisor. and Tibbie, his wife, 
Sat toasting their taes ae nicht 
When something startit in the fluir, 
And blinkit by their sicht. 

Guidwife," quoth John, " did ye see 
that moose ?" 
Whar sorra was the cat ?" 
" A moose?" " Aye, a moose." " Na, na, guid- 
man, 
It was'na a moose, 'twas a rat." 

" Ow, ow, guidwife, to think ye've been 

Sae lang aboot the hoose, 
An' no to ken a moose frae a rat ! 

Yon was'na a rat! 'twas a moose." 

" I've seen mair mice than you, guidman — 

An' what think ye o' that ? 
Sae haud your tongue an' say nae mair 
I tell ye, it was a rat." 

Me haud my tongue for you, guidwife ! 

I'll be mester o' this hoose — 
I saw't as plain as een could see't, 

An' I tell ye, it was a moose!" 



" If you're the mester o' the hoose 

It's I'm the mistress o't ; 
An' I ken best what's in the hoose, 

Sae I tell ye it was a rat." 

" Weel, weel, guidwife, gae mak' the brose, 

An' ca' it what ye please." 
So up she rose and made the brose, 

While John sat toasting his taes. 

They supit, and supit, and supit the brose, 
And aye their lips played smack ; 

They supit, and supit, and supit the brose, 
Till their lugs began to crack. 

" Sic fules we were to fa' oot guidwife, 
Aboot a moose — " " A what ? 

It's a lee ye tell, an' I say it again, 
It was'na a moose, 'twas a rat !" 

" Wad ye ca' me a leear to my very face ? 

" My faith, but ye craw croose ! 
I tell ye, Tib, I never will bear't — 

'Twas a moose !" " 'Twas a rat !" " 'Twas 
moose !" 



THE BELLS OF SHANDON. 



>73 



Wi' her spoon she strack him ower the pow — 

" Ye dour auld doit, tak' that ; 
Gae to your bed, ye canker'd sumph — 

'Twas a rat! 'Twas a moose! 'Twas a rat!" 

She sent the brose caup at his heels, 

As he hirpled ben the hoose ; 
Yet he shoved oot his head as he streekit the 
door, 

And cried, " 'Twas a moose ! 'twas a moose!" 



But when the carle was fast asleep 

She paid him back for that, 
And roared into his sleeping lug, 

" 'Twas a rat ! 'twas a rat ! 'twas a rat !" 



The de'il be wi' me if I think 

It was a beast ava ! — 
Neist mornin', as she sweepit the fhiir, 

She faund wee Johnnie's ba' ! 



THE BELLS OF SHANDON. 



FATHER PROUT. 




TH deep affection 
And recollection 
I often think of 

Those Shandon bells, 
Whose sounds so wild would, 
In the days of childhood, 
Fling round my cradle 
Their magic spells. 

On this I ponder 
Where'er I wander, 
And thus grow fonder, 

Sweet Cork, of thee, — 
With thy bells of Shandon 
That sound so grand, on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

I've heard bells chiming 
Full many a clime in, 
Tolling sublime in 

Cathedral shrine ; 
While at a glib rate 
Brass tongues would vibrate ; 
But all their music 

Spoke naught like thine. 

For memory, dwelling 
On each proud swelling 
Of thy belfry, knelling 

Its bold notes free, 
Made the bells of Shandon 



Sound far more grand, on 
The pleasant waters 
Of the river Lee. 



I've heard bells tolling 
Old Adrian's Mole in, 
Their thunder rolling 

From the Vatican ; 
And cymbals glorious 
Swinging uproarious 
In the gorgeous turrets 

Of Notre Dame ; 



But thy sounds were sweeter 
Than the dome of Peter 
Flings o'er the Tiber, 

Pealing solemnly. 
! the Bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand, on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 



There's a bell in Moscow ; 
While on tower and kiosk, oh, 
In Saint Sophia 

The Turkman gets, 
And loud in air 
Calls men to prayer, 
From the tapering summits 

Of tall minarets. 



574 



SIGHTS ON THE SEA. 



Such empty phantom 


'Tis the bells of Shandort, 


I freely grant them ; 


That sound so grand, on 


But there's an anthem 


The pleasant waters 


More dear to me — 


Of the river Lee. 



SIGHTS ON THE SEA. 



WASHINGTON IRVING. 

tjfjlfO one given to day-dreaming, and fond of losing himself in reveries, 
|P§b a sea voyage is full of subjects for meditation ; but then they are 
^ the wonders of the deep, and of the air, and rather tend to abstract 
the mind from worldly themes. I delighted to loll over the quar- 
ter-railing, or climb to the main-top, of a calm day, and muse for 
hours together on the tranquil bosom of a summer's sea ; to gaze upon the 
piles of golden clouds just peering above the horizon, fancy them some fairy 
realms, and people them with a creation of my own ; — to watch the gentle 
undulating billows, rolling their silver volumes, as if to die away on those 
happy shores. There was a delicious sensation of mingled security and awe 
with which I looked down from my giddy height, on the monsters of the deep 
at their uncouth gambols. Shoals of porpoises tumbling about the bow 




THE PORPOISE. 



of the ship ; the grampus slowly heaving his huge form above the surface ; 
or the ravenous shark, darting like a spectre, through the blue waters. 
My imagination would conjure up all that I had heard or read of the watery 
world beneath me ; of the finny herds that roam its fathomless valleys ; of 



ST. JOHN THE AGED 575 



the shapeless monsters that lurk among the very foundations of the earth ; 
and of those wild phantasms that swell the tales of fishermen and sailors. 

Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of the ocean, would 
be another theme of idle speculation. How interesting this fragment of 
a world, hastening to rejoin the great mass of existence ! What a glorious 
monument of human invention ; which has in a manner triumphed over 
wind and wave ; has brought the ends of the world into communication ; 
has established an interchange of blessings, pouring into the sterile regions 
of the north all the luxuries of the south ; has diffused the light of know- 
ledge and the charities of cultivated life ; and 'has thus bound together 
those scattered portions of the human race, between which nature seemed 
to have thrown an insurmountable barrier. 

We one day descried some shapeless object drifting at a distance. 
At sea, everything that breaks the monotony of the surrounding expanse 
attracts attention. It proved to be the mast of a ship that must have 
been completely wrecked ; for there were the remains of handkerchiefs, 
by which some of the crew had fastened themselves to this spar, to prevent 
their being washed off by the waves. There was no trace by which the 
name of the ship could be ascertained. The wreck had evidently drifted 
about for many months ; clusters of shell-fish had fastened about it, and long 
sea-weeds flaunted at its sides. But where, thought I, is the crew ? Their 
struggle has long been over — they have gone down amidst the roar of the 
tempest — their bones lie whitening among the caverns of the deep ; silence, 
oblivion, like the waves, have closed over them, and no one can tell the story 
of their end. What sighs have been wafted after that ship ! What prayers 
offered up at the deserted fireside of home ! How often has the mistress, 
the wife, the mother, pored over the daily news, to catch some casual 
intelligence of this rover of the deep ! How has expectation darkened 
into anxiety — anxiety into dread — and dread into despair ! Alas ! not one 
memento may ever return for love to cherish. All that may ever be 
known, is, that she sailed from her port, "and was never heard of more ! " 



jST. JOHN THE AGED. 



'M growing very old. This weary I Is bent and hoary with its weight of years, 
head 1 The limbs that followed Him my Master oft. 

That hath so often leaned on Jesus' From Galilee to Judah ; yea, that stood 
<§^ breast Beneath the cross, and trembled with His 

In days long past, that seem almost j groans, 

a dream — I Refuse to bear me even through the streets. 



576 



ST. JOHN THE AGED. 



To preach unto my children. Even my lips 
Refuse to form the words my heart sends 

forth. 
My ears are dull ; they scarcely hear the 

sobs 
Of my dear children gathered round my 

couch ; 
My eyes so dim they cannot see the tears. 
God lays His hand upon me — yea, His hand, 
And not His rod — the gentle hand that I 
Pelt those three years, so often pressed in 

mine, 
In friendship such as passeth woman's love. 

" I'm old, so old ! I cannot recollect 
The faces of my friends, and I forget 
The words and deeds that make up daily 

life; 
But that dear face, and every word He 

spoke, 
Grow more distinct as others fade away ; 
So that I live with Him and holy dead 
More than with living. 

"Some seventy years ago 
I was a fisher by the sacred sea ; 
It was at sunset. How the tranquil tide 
Bathed dreamily the pebbles ! How the 

light 
Crept up the distant hills, and in its wake 
Soft purple shadows wrapped the dewy 

fields ; 
And then He came and called me : then I 

gazed 
For the first time on that sweet face. Those 

eyes 
From out of which, as from a window, shone 
Divinity, looked on my inmost soul, 
And lighted it forever. Then His words 
Broke on the silence of my heart, and made 
The whole world musical. Incarnate Love 
Took hold of me, and claimed me for its 

own ; 
I followed in the twilight, holding fast 
His mantle. 

" Oh ! what holy walks we had 
Through harvest fields, and desolate, dreary 

wastes ; 
And >ften times He leaned upon my arm, 



Weary and wayworn. I was young and 

strong, 
And so upbore Him. Lord ! now / am 

weak, 
And old, and feeble. Let me rest on Thee ! 
So put Thine arm around me closer still ! 
How strong Thou art ! The daylight draws 

apace ; 
Come, let us leave these noisy streets, and 

take 
The path to Bethany ; for Mary's smile 
Awaits us at the gate, and Martha's hands 
Have long prepared the cheerful evening 

meal ; 
Come, James, the Master waits, and Peter, 

see, 
Has gone some steps before. 

" What say you, friends ? 
That this is Ephesus, and Christ has gone 
Back to His kingdom ? Ay, 'tis so, 'tis so. 
I know it all ; and yet, just now, I seemed 
To stand once more upon my native hills, 
And touch my Master. 0, how oft I've 

seen 
The touching of His garments bring back 

strength 
To palsied limbs ! I feel it has to mine. 
Up ! bear me to my church once more, 
There let me tell them of a Saviour's love ; 
For by the sweetness of my Master's voice 
Just now, I think He must be very near — 
Coming, I trust, to break the vail which 

time 
Hath worn so thin that I can see beyond, 
And watch His footsteps. 

" So raise up my head ; 
How dark it is ! I cannot seem to see 
The facet of my flock. Is that the sea 
That murmurs so, or is it weeping ! Hush J 
'My little children! God so loved the 

world 
He gave His Son ; so love ye one another, 
Love God and men. Amen.' Now bear me 

back ; 
My legacy unto an angry world is this. 
I feel my work is finished. Are the streets 

so full ? 
What call the flock my name ? the Holy 

John? 



HE KNOWS. 



577 



Nay, write me rather, Jesus Christ's beloved, 
And lover of my children. 

" Lay me down 
Once more upon my couch, and open wide 
The eastern window. See ! there comes a 

light, 
Like that which broke upon my soul at e'en, 
When, in the dreary isle of Patmos, Gabriel 

came, 
And touched me on the shoulder. See ! it 

grows, 
As when we mounted towards the pearly 

gates ; 
I know the way ! I trod it once before. 
And hark ! it is the song the ransomed sung, 
Of glory to the Lamb ! How loud it sounds ; 
And that unwritten one ! Methinks my soul 



Can join it now. But who are these who 

crowd 
The shining way? Say! joy! 'tis the 

eleven ! 
With Peter first ; how eagerly he looks ! 
How bright the smiles are beaming on James' 

face ! 
I am the last. Once more we are complete 
To gather round the Paschal feast. 



" My place 
Is next my Master — ! my Lord ! my Lord ! 
How bright Thou art, and yet the very same 
I loved in Galilee ! 'Tis worth the hundred 

years 
To feel this bliss ! So lift me up, dear Lord, 
Unto Thy bosom. There shall I abide." 



HE KNOWS. 



MARY G. BEAINAED. 



KNOW not what will befall me ! 

God hangs a mist o'er my eyes; 
And o'er each step of my onward path 

He makes new scenes to rise, 
And every joy He sends to me 

Comes as a sweet and glad surprise. 

I see not a step before me, 

As I tread the days of the year, 

But the past is still in God's keeping, 
The future His mercy shall clear, 

And what looks dark in the distance, 
May brighten as I draw near. 

For perhaps the dreaded future 
Has less bitterness than I think ; 

The Lord may sweeten the water 
Before I stoop to drink, 

Or, if Marah must be Marah, 
He will stand beside its brink. 

It may be there is waiting 

For the coming of my feet, 
Some gift of such rare blessedness. 

Dome joy so strangely sweet, 
37 



That my lips can only tremble 
With the thanks I cannot speak. 

0, restful, blissful ignorance ! 

'Tis blessed not to know, 
It keeps me quiet in those arms 

Which will not let me go, 
And hushes my soul to rest 

On the bosom which loves me so. 

So I go on not knowing ! 

I would not if I might ; 
I would rather walk on in the dark with 
God, 

Than go alone in the light, 
I would rather walk with Him by faith, 

Than walk alone by sight. 

My heart shrinks back from trials 
Which the future may disclose, 

Yet I never had a sorrow 

But what the dear Lord chose; 

So I send the coming tears back, 

With the whispered word " He knows." 



578 



THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. 



THE SOLDIERS DREAM. 



, jg£i|a . 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 




UR bugles sang truce, for the night- 
cloud had lowered, 
And the sentinel stars set their watch 

in the sky ; 
And thousands had sunk on the 
ground overpowered : 
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. 



Methought from the battle-field's dreadful 
array 
Far, far, I had roamed on a desolate track : 
'Twas autumn, and sunshine arose on the 
way 
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed 
me back. 




When reposing that night on my pallet of 
straw, 
By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded 
the slain, 
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, 
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it 
drgain. 



I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft 
In life's morning march when my bosom 
was young ; 
I heard my own mountain-goats bleating 
aloft, 
And knew the sweet strain that the corn 
reapers sung. 



OLD COACHING DAYS. 



579 



Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I 


Stay, stay with us ! — rest ; thou art weary 


swore 


and worn ! 


From my home and my weeping friends 


And fain was their war-broken soldier 


never to part ; 


to stay ; 


My little ones kissed me a thousand times 


But sorrow returned with the dawning of 


o'er, 


morn, 


And my wife sobbed aloud in her full- 


And the voice in my dreaming ear 


ness of heart. 


melted away. 



OLD COACHING DAYS. 



JOHN POOLE. 



RETURNED to Reeves's Hotel, College Green, where I was lodging. 
The individual who, at this time, so ably filled the important office 
of " Boots " at the hotel was a character. Be it remembered that, 
in his youth, he had been discharged from his place for omitting to 
call a gentleman, who was to go by one of the morning coaches, and 
who, in consequence of such neglect, missed his journey. 
My slumbers were fitful — disturbed. Horrible dreams assailed me. 
Series of watches each pointing to the hour of four passed slowly before 
me — then, time-pieces — dials of larger size — and at last, enormous steeple- 
clocks, all pointing to four, four, four. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream, 

and endless processions of watchmen moved along, each mournfully dinning 
in my ears, " Past four o'clock." At length I was attacked by nightmare. 
Methought I was an hour-glass — old Father Time bestrode me — he 
pressed upon me with unendurable weight — fearfully and threateningly 
did he wave his scythe above my head — he grinned at me, struck three 
blows, audible blows, with the handle of his scythe, on my breast, stooped 
his huge head, and shrieked in my ear — 

" Vor o'clock, zur ; I zay it be vore o'clock." 

It was the awful voice of Boots. 

"Well, I hear you," groaned I. 

"But I doant hear you. Vor o'clock, zur." 

a Very well, very well, that'll do." 

" Beggin' your pardon, but it woan't do, zur. 'Ee must get up — past 
vore, zur." 

And he thundered awav at the door ; nor did he cease knocking till 1 



580 OLD COACHING DAYS. 



was fairly up, and had shown myself to him in order to satisfy him of the 
fact. 

"That'll do, zur; 'ee told I to carl'ee, and I hope I ha' carld'ee 
property." 

I lit my taper at the rushlight. On opening a window-shutter, I was 
regaled with the sight of a fog, a parallel to which London itself, on one 
of its most perfect November days, could scarcely have produced. A dirty 
drizzling rain was falling. My heart sank within me. It was now twenty 
minutes past four. I was master of no more than forty disposable minutes, 
and, in that brief space, what had I not to do ! The duties of the toilet 
were indispensable— the portmanteau must be packed — and, run as fast 
as I might, I could not get to the coach-office in less than ten minutes. 
Hot water was a luxury not to be procured; at that villainous hour not a 
human being in the house (nor, do I firmly believe, in the universe entire,) 
had risen— my unfortunate ^self, and my companion in wretchedness, poor 
Boots, excepted. The water in the jug was frozen ; but, by dint of ham- 
mering upon it with the handle of the poker, I succeeded in enticing out 
about as much as would have filled a tea-cup. Two towels, which had 
been left wet in the room, were standing on a chair, bolt upright, as stiff 
as the poker itself, which you might almost as easily have bent. The 
tooth-brushes were riveted to the glass in which I had left them, and of 
which, (in my haste to disengage them from their stronghold,) they carried 
away a fragment ; the soap was cemented to the dish ; my shaving-brush 
was a mass of ice. In shape more appalling discomfort had never ap- 
peared on earth. I approached the looking-glass. Even had all the 
materials for the operation been tolerably thawed, it was impossible to use 
a razor by such a light. 

" Who's there?" 

"Now, if 'ee please, zur; no time to lose; only twenty-vive minutes 
to vive." 

I lost my self-possession — I have often wondered that morning did not 
unsettle my mind. 

There was no time for the performance of anything like a comfortable 
toilet. I resolved, therefore, to defer it altogether till the coach should 
stop to breakfast. " I'll pack my portmanteau; that must be done." In 
went whatever happened to come first to hand. In my haste, I had 
thrust in, amongst my own things, one of mine host's frozen towels. 
Everything must come out again. 

"Who's there?" 

"Now, zur; 'ee'l be too late, zur." 



THE PENNY YE MEANT TO GI'E. 581 

" Coming ! " 

Everything was now gathered together — the portmanteau would not 
lock. No matter, it must be content to travel to town in a deshabille of 
straps. Where were my boots ? In my hurry I had packed away both 
pair. It was impossible to travel to London on such a day in slippers. 
Again was everything to be undone. 

"Now, zur, coach be going." 

The most unpleasant part of the ceremony of hanging (scarcely ex- 
cepting the closing act) must be the hourly notice given to the culprit of 
the exact length of time he has to live. Could any circumstance have 
added much to the miseries of my situation, most assuredly it would have 
been those unfeeling reminders. 

"I'm coming," again replied I, with a groan. " I have only to pull 
on my boots." They were both left-footed ! Then must I open the rascally 
portmanteau again. 

" Please, zur " 

"What in the name of the do you want now ? " 

"Coach be gone, please zur." 

" Gone ! Is there a chance of my overtaking it ? ' 

" Bless 'ee ! noa zur ; not as Jem Robbins do droive. He be vive 
mile off by now." 

"You are certain of that?" 

" I warrant'ee, zur." 

At this assurance I felt a throb of joy, which was almost a compensa- 
tion for all my sufferings past. 

" Boots," said I, " you are a kind-hearted creature, and I will give 
you an additional half-crown. Let the house be kept perfectly quiet, and 
desire the chamber-maid to call me " 

" At what o'clock, zur ? " 

" This day three months at the earliest ! " 



"THE PENNY YE MEANT TO GEE." 



^Tf|HERE'S a funny tale of a stingy man, 
|£J^ Who was none too good, but might 
°il9^¥ have been worse, 

l\jX Who went to his church on a Sun- 

X day night, 

And carried along his well filled 
purse. 



When the sexton came with his begging 
plate, 
The church was but dim with the candle's 
light ; 
The stingy man fumbled all through his 
purse, 
And chose a coin by touch, and not sight. 



582 



MY PLAYMATE. 



It's an odd thing, now, that guineas should 
be 
So like unto pennies in shape and size. 
" I'll give a penny," the stingy man said: 
" The poor must not gifts of pennies de- 
spise." 

The penny fell down with a clatter and ring ! 

And back in his seat leaned the stingy man. 
" The world is so full of the poor," he thought : 

" I can't help them all — I give what I can." 

Ha, ha ! how the sexton smiled, to be sure, 
To see the gold guinea fall into his plate ! 

Ha, ha ! how the stingy man's heart was 
wrung, 
Perceiving his blunder, but just too late ! 

"No matter," he said: "in the Lord's ac- 
count 

That guinea of gold is set down to me. 
They lend to him who give to the poor ; 

It will not so bad an investment be." 



" Na, na, mon," the chuckling sexton cried 
out: 
" The Lord is na cheated — He kens thee 
well; 
He knew it was only by accident 

That out o' thy fingers the guinea fell ! 

" He keeps an account, na doubt, for the 
puir : 
But in that account He'll set down tc 
thee 
Na mair o' that golden guinea, my mon, 
Than the one bare penny ye meant to gi'e 1" 

There's a comfort, too, in the little tale — 
A serious side as well as a joke ; 

A comfort for all the generous poor, 
In the comical words the sexton spoke ; 

A comfort to think that the good Lord knows 
How generous we really desire to be, 

And will give us credit in his account 
For all the pennies we long " to gi'e." 




MY PLAYMATE. 



. c4^ - 

IPPpHE pines were dark 

palls Their song was soft and low ; 

The blossoms in the sweet May wind 
Were falling like the snow. 

The blossoms drifted at our feet, 
The orchard birds sang clear ; 
The sweetest and the saddest day 
It seemed of all the year. 



JOHN G. WHITTIER. 



For more to me than birds or flowers, 
My playmate left her home, 

And took with her the laughing spring, 
The music and the bloom. 

She kissed the lips of kith and kin, 

She laid her hand in mine : 
What more could ask the bashful boy 

Who fed her father's kine ? 



SHIBBOLETH. 



583 



She left us in the bloom of 

The constant years told o'er 
Their seasons with as sweet May morns, 

But she came back no more. 

I walk, with noiseless feet, the round 

Of uneventful years ; 
Still o'er and o'er I sow the Spring 

And reap the "Autumn ears. 

She lives where all the golden year 

Her summer roses blow ; 
The dusky children of the sun 

Before her come and go. 

There haply with her jeweled hands 
She smooths her silken gown, — 

No more the homespun lap wherein 
I shook the walnuts down. 

The wild grapes wait us by the brook, 

The brown nuts on the hill, 
And still the May-day flowers make sweet 

The woods of Follymill. 

The lilies blossom in the pond, 

The birds build in the tree, 
The dark pines sing on Ramoth hill 

The slow song of the sea. 



I wonder if she thinks of them, 
And how the old time seems, — 

If ever the pines of Ramoth wood 
Are sounding in her dreams. 

I see her face, I hear her voice ; 

Does she remember mine ? 
And what to her is now the boy 

Who fed her father's kine ? 

What cares she that the orioles build 
For other eyes than ours, — 

That other hands with nuts are filled, 
And other laps with flowers ? 

playmate in the golden time ! 

Our mossy seat is green, 
Its fringing violets blossom yet, 

The old trees o'er it lean. 

The winds so sweet with birch and fern 

A sweeter memory blow ; 
And there in spring the veeries sing 

The song of long ago. 

And still the pines of Ramoth wood 
Are moaning like the sea, — 

The moaning of the sea of change 
Between myself and thee ! 



SHIBBOLETH. 



Then said they unto him: " Say now Shibboleth;" and be said Sibboleth. They took him and slew him at the 
passages of Jordan ; and there fell at that time of the Ephraimites, forty and two thousand. Judges xii. 6. 



E. H. J. CLEVELAND. 




OWN to the stream they flying go ; 
Right on the border stand the foe, — 
Stand the foe, and this threat they 
d-m make : 

j " Shibboleth say, or your head we'll 
¥ take !" 

Up to his desk the good man goes, 
Down in the pews they sit, his foes, — 
Sit his foes, and this threat they make : 
" Shibboleth say, or your head we'll take ! 
Say : Remember the Sabbath day, 
In it ye neither shall work nor play ; 
Say it commences on Saturday night, — 



Just about early candle-light ; 

Or, to make it a little surer still, 

When the sun goes down behind the hill ; 

And if the sun sets at half-past four, 

Close the shutters, and bar the door; 

Tell the strangers your gates within 

That to do otherwise is a sin ; 

And at half-past four on the following day, 

Take out your knitting, and work or play 

For the Lord allows, in his law sublime, 

Twenty-four hours for holy time ; 

Thus you must speak our Shibboleth." 

Nothing daunted, the good man saithj 



584 



SHIBBOLETH. 



"Ye must remember the Sabbath day — 
In it ye neither shall work nor play, 
Tell the strangers your gates within 
That to do otherwise is a sin. 
But at twelve o'clock it begins, I'm sure, 
Not on Saturday at half-past four ! 
And at twelve o'clock at night it ends — 
This is the fourth command, my friends." 

Down sits the parson in his seat, 

Up rise his enemies from the pit ; 

" Off with his head !" they wrathful say, 

" How he abuses our Sabbath day !" 

Up comes another to take his place, 

Heated and panting from the chase, 

And again the foe their menace make : 

" Shibboleth say, or your head we'll take ! 

Say that the Lord made bond and free, 

Slavery's an evil, not singer se; 

Slaves there have been from the first man's 

fall, 
And a righteous God upholds it all. 
This is the pass-word — speak it plain." 

And the good man answers back again, 
" I know that the Lord made bond and free 
All of one blood — ' and cursed is he,' 
Saith a righteous God in his holy ire, 
'Who useth service and giveth no hire ! ' " 



This man will never our Shibboleth 



say 



Thus cry the foe, as they eager lay 
Their violent hands on the clerical crown, 
"He is not one of us — hew him down !" 

And again to the next in the sacred desk, 
They look from below and propound this 

text: 
" Say that we fell in Adam's fall, 
And that in Adam we sinned all ; 
Say that in him we all are dead, 
Else you'll oblige us to take your head." 

A moment they wait to hear the word, 
But shout as soon as his voice is heard, 
" Oh, hear ye now what this rebel saith ? 
Sibboleth only — not Shibboleth." 

Another cry in the stifled air, 

Another head with its gory hair 

By the rolling stream, and another threat 



The dire assassins are making yet : 
"Shibboleth say, and the stream shall flow. 
Right and left as you onward go ; 
Sibboleth say, and your head shall fall 
Right in the pass, as fell they all. 
Say that our sins we must all forsake — 
That the yoke of Christ we must willing 

take ; 
Our tongues from evil we must restrain, 
And from the alluring cup abstain ; 
But we have made an amendment fair, 
And due allowance, here and there, 
For such as have but little grace, — 
Every one understands the case ; 
We who are young in grace must grow, 
But still in the ways of folly go ; 
We must have our pleasures, and perchance 
Amuse ourselves in a little dance , 
And we who are somewhat older grown — 
Though our lips are the Lord's and not our 

own, — 
Must now and then be allowed to speak, 
Though our words be truly not over meek ; 
And should we happen to speak in a hurry,, 
Why surely the parson needn't worry, — 
Not even though we should blast his fame, 
For the poor church members are not to 

blame ; 
And though we are not inclined to^drink 
Of the sparkling cup, yet we surely think 
It will never answer to fully put down 
The sale of the article in our town. 
These things we willingly, freely tell, 
That you may learn our Shibboleth welh 
Thus do we all of our sins forsake, 
And the yoke of Christ thus easy take. 
For hath He not called the burden light? 
Shibboleth say, as we indite." 

But "Be ye holy," he calmly saith ; 
"Brethren, this is my Shibboleth." 

A sudden cry and a sudden gleam 

Of a glancing sword by the crimson stream, 

And " Off with his head !" they vengeful cry, 

" He is an Ephraimite, — let him die ;" 

And quick dispatch him with all their might, 

Just as another one comes in sight. 

Glad welcome give to the next who stands 

With the "bread of life" in his pious hands. 



SELLING A COAT. 



585 



In his pious hands, and they hear him 

through, 
u We believe it all, and so do you ; 
But this is not enough to say, 
We must have it said in a particular way — 
■Say that the sinner cant repent 
Without the Spirit is on him sent ; 
To the small word cant, have a due regard, 
Else things will be apt to go very hard." 

But the good man says : " He can, but won't; 
1 know that my danger is imminent." 

And they quick reply, " We're sorry to make 
Such a very small word as this to take 
Your head from your shoulders, — thus, — 

entire, — 
But you have incurred our holy ire ; 
The meaning of both is the same, 'tis true, 



But such an excuse will never do ; 
'Tis a very important word, my friend, 
You will please to perceive you are near 
your end." 

Forty-two thousand fell that day, 
Forty-two thousand bodies lay 
Of the Ephraimites, in the narrow way 
That led to the running river. 

Forty-two thousand more will fall, 
For when they accept the " unanimous call " 
They may be assured they have staked their all 
By the theological river. 

For still to the crossing do they hie, 
And still the " Shibboleth " eager try, 
But stop in the narrow pass to die, 
And go not over the river. 



SELLING A COAT. 




&Jf&? 



SS STORY is told of a clothing merchant on Chatham Street, New 



York, who kept a very open store and drove a thriving trade, the 
natural consequence being that he waxed wealthy and indolent. 
He finally concluded to get an assistant to take his place on the 
sidewalk to " run in" customers, while he himself would enjoy his 
otium cum dig within the store. Having advertised for a suitable clerk, 
he awaited applications, determined to engage none but a good talker who 
would be sure to promote his interest. 

Several unsuccessful applicants were dismissed, when a smart looking 
Americanized Jew came along and applied for the situation. The " boss" 
was determined not to engage the fellow without proof of his thorough 
capability and sharpness. Hence the following dialogue: 

" Look here, young man ! I told you somedings. I vill gone up de 
street und valk me back past dis shop yust like I vas coundrymans, and if 
you can make me buy a coat of you, I vill hire you right away quick." 

u All right," said the young man, " go ahead, and if I don't sell you a 
coat I won't ask the situation." 

The proprietor proceeded a short distance up the street, then sauntered 
back toward the shop, where the young man was on the alert for him. 
" Hi ! look here ! Don't you want some clothes to-day ?" 



586 SELLING A COAT. 



" No, I don't vant me nothing," returned the boss. 

" But step inside and let me show you what an elegant stock we 
have," said the " spider to the fly," catching him by the arm, and forcing 
him into the store. 

After considerable palaver, the clerk expectant got down a coat, on 
the merits of which he expatiated at length, and finally offered it to "the 
countryman" at thirty dollars, remarking that it was " dirt cheap." 

" Dirty tollar ? My kracious ! I vouldn't give you dwenty. But I 
don't vant de coat anyvays." 

" You had better take it, my friend; you don't get a bargain like this 
every day." 

"No; I don't vant it. I gone me out. Good-day." 

"Hold on! don't be in such a hurry," answered the anxious clerk. 
" See here, now the boss has been out all day, and I haven't sold a dollar's 
worth. I want to have something to show when he comes back, so take 
the coat at twenty-five dollars ; that is just what it cost. I don't make a 
cent on it; but take it along." 

" Young mans, don'd I told you three, four, couple of dimes dat I don't 
vant de coat?" 

" Well, take it at twenty dollars ; I'll lose money on it, but I want 
to make one sale anyhow, before the boss comes in. Take it at twenty 
dollars." 

" Veil, I don't vant de coat, but I'll give you fifteen tollar, and not one 
cent more." 

" Oh, my friend, I couldn't. do it! Why, the coat cost twenty-five; 
yet sooner than not make a sale, I'll let you have it for eighteen dollars, 
and stand the loss." 

" No; I don't vant it anyvays. It ain't vurth no more as fifteen 
tollar, but I vouldn't give a cent more, so help me kracious." 

Here the counterfeit rustic turned to depart, pleased to think that he 
had got the best of the young clerk; bat that individual was equal to the 
emergency. Knowing that he must sell the garment to secure his place, 
he seized the parting boss, saying : 

" Well, I'll tell you how it is. The man who keeps this store is an 
uncle of mine, and as he is a mean old cuss, I want to bust him. Here, 
take the coat at fifteen dollars." 

This settled the business. The proprietor saw that this was too valu- 
able a salesman to let slip, and so engaged him at once ; and he may be 
seen every day standing in front of the shop, urging innocent countrymen 
to buy clothes which are "yust de fit," at sacrificial prices. 



THE MYSTIC WEAVER. 



587 




A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA. 




ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 



WET sheet and a flowing sea, — 

A wind that follows fast, 
And fills the white and rustling sail, 

And bends the gallant mast, — 
And bends the gallant mast, my 

boys, 
While, like the eagle free, 
Away the good ship flies, and 
leaves 
Old England on the lee. 

for a soft and gentle wind ! 

I heard a fair one cry ; 
But give to me the snorting breeze 



And white waves heaving hign — 
And white waves heaving high, my boys. 

The good ship tight and free ; 
The world of waters is our home, 

And merry men are we. 

There's tempest in yon horned moon, 

And lightning in you cloud ; 
And hark the music, mariners ! 

The wind is piping loud, — 
The wind is piping loud, my boys, 

The lightning flashing free ; 
While the hollow oak our palace is, 

Our heritage the sea. 



THE MYSTIC WEA VER. 




LMLY see the Mystic Weaver, 
Throw his shuttle to and fro ; 
'Mid the noise and wild confusion, 
Well the weaver seems to know 
What each motion 
And commotion, 
What each fusion 
And confusion, 
In the grand result will show, 
As the nations, 



Kings and stations, 
Upward, Downward, 
Hither, thither, 
As in mystic dances, go. 

In the present all is mystery ; 
In the past 'tis beauteous history. 
O'er the mixing and the mingling, 
How the signal bells are jingling ? 
See you not the weaver leaving 



588 



THE NEW CHURCH ORGAN. 



Finished work behind, in weaving ? 


In-wrought figures fading never ; 


See you not the reason subtle, 


Every figure has its plaidings, 


As the web and woof diminish, 


Brighter form and softer shadings 


Changing into beauteous finish, 


Each illumined, — what a riddle ! 


Why the Weaver makes his shuttle, 


From a Cross that gems the middle. 


Hither, thither, scud and scuttle ? 






'Tis a saying : — some reject it, 


Glorious wonder ! what a weaving ! 


That its light is all reflected ; 


To the dull beyond believing! 


That the tapet's hues are given 


Such, no fabled ages know. 


By a Sun that shines in Heaven ! 


Only faith can see the mystery, 


'Tis believed, by all believing, 


How, along the aisles of History 


That great God himself is weaving — 


Where the feet of sages go, 


Bringing out the world's dark mystery, 


Loveliest to the purest eyes, 


In the light of Truth and History ; 


Grand the mystic tapet lies ! 


And as web and woof diminish, 


Soft and smooth, and even spreading 


Comes the grand and glorious finish ; 


As if made for angel's treading ; 


When begin the golden ages 


Tufted circles touching ever, 


Long foretold by seers and sages. 



THE NEW CHURCH ORGAN. 



WILL. M. CAELETON, 




HEY'VE got a bran new organ, Sue, 
For all their fuss and search ; 
They've done just as they said they'd 
do, 
And fetched it into church. 

They're bound the critter shall be seen, 
And on the preacher's right, 
They've hoisted up their new machine 

In everybody's sight. 
They've got a chorister and choir, 

Ag'n my voice and vote ; 
For it was never my desire, 

To praise the Lord by note ! 

I've been a sister good an' true, 

For five and thirty year ; 
I've done what seemed my part to do, 

An' prayed my duty clear ; 
I've sung the hymns both slow and quick, 

Just as the preacher read ; 
And twice, when Deacon Tubbs was sick, 

I took the fork an' led ! 
And now their bold, new-fangled ways 

Is comin' all about ; 



And I, right in my latter days, 
Am fairly crowded out ! 

To-day, the preacher, good old dear, 

With tears all in his eyes, 
Read — " I can read my title clear 

To mansions in the skies," — 
I al'ays liked that blessed hymn — 

I s'pose I al'ays will ; 
It somehow gratifies my whim, 

In good old " Ortonville ;" 
But when that choir got up to sing, 

I couldn't catch a word ; 
They sung the most dog-gonedest thing, 

A body ever heard ! 

Some worldly chaps was standin' near, 

And when I seed them grin, 
I bid farewell to every fear, 

And boldly waded in. 
I thought I'd chase their tune along, 

An' tried with all my might ; 
But though my voice is good an' strong 

I couldn't steer it right ; 
When they was high, then I was low, 

An' also contra' wise ; 



A GERMAN TRUST SONG. 



589 



And I too fast, or they too slow, 
To " mansions in the skies." 

An' after every verse, you know 

• They played a little tune ; 
I didn't understand, an' so 

I started in too soon. 
I pitched it pretty middlin' high, 

I fetched a lusty tone, 
But oh, alas ! I found that I 

Was singing there alone ! 
They laughed a little, I am told, 

But I had done my best : 
And not a wave of trouble rolled 

Across my peaceful breast. 

And sister Brown — I could but look— 

She sits right front of me ; 
She never was no singin' book, 

An' never meant to be ; 
But then she al'ays tried to do 

The best she could, she said ; 
She understood the time right through, 

An' kep' it with her head ; 
But when she tried this mornin', oh, 

I had to laugh, or cough — 
It kep' her head a bobbin' so, 

It e'en a' most came off ! 



An' Deacon Tubbs, — he all broke down, 

As one might well suppose, 
He took one look at sister Brown, 

And meekly scratched his nose. 
He looked his hymn book through and 
through 

And laid it on the seat, 
And then a pensive sigh he drew, 

And looked completely beat. 
An' when they took another bout, 

He didn't even rise, 
But drawed his red bandanner out, 

An' wiped his weepin' eyes. 



I've been a sister good an' true, 

For five an' thirty year ; 
I've done what seemed my part to do, 

And prayed my duty clear ; 
But death will stop my voice, I know, 

For he is on my track ; 
And some day, I to church will go 

And never more come back. 
And when the folks get up to sing — 

Whene'er that time shall be — 
I do not want no patent thing 

A squsalin' over me ! 



A GERMAN TRUST SONG. 



LAMPERTIUS, 1625. 



.cfc. 






>UST as God leads me I would go ; 

I would not ask to choose my 

fway ; 
Content with what He will bestow, 
Assured He will not let me stray. 
¥ So as He leads, my path I 

| make, 

And step by step I gladly take, 
A child in Him confiding. 

Just as God leads, I am content ; 

I rest me calmly in His hands ; 
That which He hath decreed and sent — 

That which His will for me commands, 
I would that He should all fulfil 



That I should do His gracious will 
In living or in dying. 

Just as God leads, I all resign ; 

I trust me to my Father's will ; 
When reason's rays deceptive shine, 
His counsel would I yet fulfill ; 
That which His love ordained 

right, 
Before He brought me to the light, 
My all to Him resigning. 

Just as God leads me, I abide 

In faith, in hope, in suffering, true; 
His strength is ever by my side — 

Can aught my hold on Him undo ? 



590 



MAKING LOVE IN A BALLOON. 



I hold me firm in patience, knowing 
That God my life is still bestowing — 
The best in kindness sending. 

Just as God leads, I onward go, 



Oft amid thorns and briars keen ; 
God does not yet His guidance show — 

But in the end it shall be seen 
How by a loving Father's will, 
Faithful and true He leads me still. 



MOUNTAIN AND SQUIRREL. 



It. W. EMERSON, 




IHE mountain and the squirrel 
' Had a quarrel ; 
And the former 



called the 
Little Prig." 
Bun replied : 
" You are doubtless very big ; 
But all sorts of things and weather 
Must be taken in together, 
To make up a year 
And a sphere. 



latter 



And I think it no disgrace 

To occupy my place. 

If I'm not so large as you, 

You are not so small as I, 

And not half so spry. 

I'll not deny you make 

A very pretty squirrel track ; 

Talents differ ; all is well and wisely put 

If I cannot carry forests on my back, 

Neither can you crack a nut." 



MAKING LOVE IN A BALLOON 



LITCHFIELD MOSELEY. 




jppHERE was to be a balloon ascent from the lawn, and Fanny had 
«^ tormented her father into letting her ascend with the aeronaut. I in- 
stantly took my plans ; bribed the aeronaut to plead illness at the 
moment when the machine should have risen ; learned from him the 
management of the balloon, though I understood that pretty well 
before, and calmly awaited the result. The day came. The weather was 
fine. The balloon was inflated. Fanny was in the car. Everything was 
ready, when the aeronaut suddenly fainted. He was carried into the 
house, and Sir George accompanied him. Fanny was in despair. 

" Am I to lose my air expedition ? " she exclaimed, looking over the 
side of the car ; " some one understands the management of this thing,, 
surely? Nobody! Tom!" she called out to me, "you understand it, 
don't you ? " 

"Perfectly," I answered. 

" Come along, then," she cried ; " be quick, before papa comes back."" 



MAKING LOVE IN A BALLOON. 



591 



The company in general endeavored to dissuade her from her project^ 
but of course in vain. After a decent show of hesitation, I climbed into 
the car. The balloon was cast off, and rapidly sailed heavenward. There 
was scarcely a breath of wind, and we rose 
almost straight up. We rose above the 
house, and she laughed and said, " How 
jolly ! " 

We were higher than the highest trees, 
and she smiled, and said it was very kind 
of me to come with her. We were so high 
that the people below looked mere specks, 
and she hoped that I thoroughly understood 
the management of the balloon. Now was 
my time. 

" I understand the going up part," I an- 
swered; "to come down is not so easy," 
and I whistled. 

" What do you mean," she cried. 
" Why, when you want to go up faster, 
you throw some sand overboard," I replied, 
suiting the action to the word. 

" Don't be foolish, Tom," she said, trying to appear quite calm and 
indifferent, but trembling uncommonly. 

"Foolish ! " I said; " oh dear, no, but whether I go along the ground 
or up in the air I like to go the pace, and so do you, Fanny, I know. Go 
it, you cripples ! " and over went another sand-bag. 

" Why, you're mad, surely," she whispered in utter terror, and tried 
to reach the bags, but I kept her back. 

" Only with love, my dear," I answered, smiling pleasantly ; " only 
with love for you. Oh, Fanny, I adore you ! Say you will be my wife." 

" Never !" she answered ; " I'll go to Ursa Major first, though I've 
got a big enough bear here, in all conscience." 

She looked so pretty that I was almost inclined to let her off. (I was 
only trying to frighten her, of course I knew how high we could go safely, 
well enough, and how valuable the life of Jenkins was to his country,) but 
resolution is one of the strong points of my character, and when I've 
begun a thing I like to carry it through ; so I threw over another sand- 
bag, and whistled the Dead March in Saul. 

" Come, Mr. Jenkins," she said suddenly, " come, Tom, let us descend 
now, and I'll promise to say nothing whatever about all this." 




592 MAKING LOVE IN A BALLOON. 

I continued the execution of the Dead March. 

" But if you do not begin the descent at once I'll tell papa the moment I 
set foot on the ground." 

I laughed, seized another bag, and looking steadily at her said : 
" Will you promise to give me your hand ? " 

" I've answered you already," was the reply. 

Over went the sand, and the solemn notes of the Dead March re- 
sounded through the car. 

" I thought you were a gentleman," said Fanny rising up in a terrible' 
rage from the bottom of the car, where she had been sitting, and looking 
perfectly beautiful in her wrath. " I thought you were a gentleman, but 
I find I was mistaken. Why, a chimney-sweeper would not treat a lady 
in such a way. Do you know that you are risking your own life as well 
as mine by your madness ? " 

I explained that I adored her so much that to die in her company 
would be perfect bliss, so that I begged she would not consider my feelings 
at all. She dashed off her beautiful hair from her face, and standing per- 
fectly erect, looking like the Goddess of Anger or Boadicea — if you can 
imagine that personage in a balloon — she said, " I command you to begin 
the descent this instant ! " 

The Dead March, whistled in a manner essentially gay and lively, 
was the only response. After a few minutes' silence I took up another 
bag, and said : 

" We are getting rather high; if you do not decide soon we shall have 
Mercury coming to tell us that we are trespassing — will you promise me 
your hand ? " 

She sat in sulky silence in the bottom of the car. I threw over the 
sand. Then she tried another plan. Throwing herself upon her knees, 
and bursting into tears, she said : 

" Oh, forgive me for my slight the other day. It was very wrong, 
and I am very sorry. Take me home, and I will be a sister to you." 

" Not a wife ? " said I. 

" I can't! I can't ! " she answered. 

Over went the fourth bag, and I began to think she would beat me 
after all, for I did not like the idea of going much higher. I would not give 
in just yet, however. I whistled for a few moments, to give her time for 
reflection, and then said : " Fanny, they say that marriages are made ill 
heaven — if you do not take care, ours will be solemnized there." 

I took up the fifth bag. " Come," I said, " my wife in life, or my 
companion in death. Which is it to be ? " and I patted the sand-bag in 



THE BELLS. 



593 



a cheerful manner. She held her face in her hands, but did not answer. 
I nursed the bag in my arms, as if it had been a baby. 

"Come, Fanny, give me your promise." I could hear her sobs. I'm 
the softest-hearted creature breathing, aud would not pain any living 
thing, and I confess she had beaten me. I was on the point of flinging the 
bag back into the car, and saying, " Learest Fanny, forgive me for fright- 
ening you. Marry whomsoever you wish. Give your lovely hand to the 
lowest groom in your stables — endow with your priceless beauty the chief 
of the Panki-wanki Indians. Whatever happens, Jenkins is your slave — 
your dog — your footstool. His duty, henceforth, is to go whithersoever 
you shall order, to do whatever you shall command." I was just on the 
point of saying this, I repeat, when Fanny suddenly looked up, and said,, 
with a queerish expression upon her face : 

" You need not throw that last bag over. I promise to give you my 
hand." 

" With all your heart ? " I asked, quickly. 

"With all my heart," said she, with the same strange look. 

I tossed the bag into the bottom of the car, and opened the valve. 
The balloon descended. Gentlemen, will you believe it ? — when we had 
reached the ground, and the balloon had been given over to its recovered 
master, when I had helped Fanny tenderly to the earth, and turned to- 
wards her to receive anew the promise of her hand — will you believe it ? — 
she gave me a box on the ear that upset me against the car, and running 
to her father, who at that moment came up, she related to him and the 
assembled company what she called my disgraceful conduct in the balloon, 
and ended by informing me that all of her hand that I was likely to get 
had been already bestowed upon my ear, which she assured me had been 
given with all her heart. 



THE BELLS. 



EDGAR A. POE. 




jgM&EAB the sledges with the bells- 
Silver bells ! 
c f^C s ¥ What a world of merriment their 
q')) U melody foretells ! 

How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 
In the icy air of night ! 
While the stars that oversprinkle 
All the heavens, seem to twinkle 
38 



With a crystalline delight 
Keeping time, time, time, 
In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
To the tintinnabulation that so musically 
wells 
From the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells— 
From the j ingling and the tinkling of the bell?. 



594 



THE BELLS. 



Hear the mellow wedding bells — 


By the twanging, 


Golden bells ! 


And the clanging, 


What a world of happiness their harmony 


How the danger ebbs and flows ; 


foretells ! 


Yet the ear distinctly tells, 


Through the balmy air of night 


In the jangling 


How they ring out their delight ! 


And the wrangling, 


From the molten-golden notes, 


How the danger sinks and swells, 


And all in tune, 


By the sinking or the swelling in the anger 


What a liquid ditty floats 


of the bells — 


To the turtle-dove that listens, while she 


Of the bells— 


gloats 


Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 


On the moon ! 


Bells, bells, bells— 


Oh, from out the sounding cells, 


In the clamor and the clangor of the bells ! 


"What a gush of euphony voluminously wells ! 




How it swells ! 


Hear the tolling of the bells — 


How it dwells 


Iron bells ! 




What a world of solemn thought their mon- 


On the future ! how it tells 


ody compels ! 


Of the rapture that impels 


In the silence of the night, 


To the swinging and the ringing 


How we shiver with affright, 


Of the bells, bells, bells— 


At the melancholy menace of their tone! 


Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 


For every sound that floats 


Bells, bells, bells— 


From the rust within their throats 


To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells ! 


Is a groan. 




And the people — ah, the people — 


Hear the loud alarum bells — 


They that dwell up in the steeple, 


Brazen bells ! 


All alone, 


What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency 


And who tolling, tolling, tolling, 


tells ! 


In that muffled monotone, 


In the startled ear of night 


Feel a glory in so rolling 


How they scream out their affright ! 


On the human heart a stone — 


Too much horrified to speak, 


They are neither man nor woman — 


They can only shriek, shriek, 


They are neither brute nor human — 


Out of tune, 


They are ghouls : 


In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the 


And their king it is who tolls ; 


fire, 


And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls, 


In a mad expostulation with the deaf and 


A paean from the bells ! 


frantic fire 


And his merry bosom swells 


Leaping higher, higher, higher, 


With the paean of the bells ! 


With a desperate desire, 


And he dances and he yells ; 


And a resolute endeavor, 


Keeping time, time, time, 


Now — now to sit or never, 


In a sort of Kunic rhyme, 


By the side of the pale-faced moon. 


To the paean of the bells — 


Oh, the bells, bells, bells ! 


Of the bells ; 


What a tale their terror tells 


Keeping time, time, time, 


Of despair ! 


In a sort of Runic rhyme, 


How they clang, and clash, and roar ! 


To the throbbing of the bells — 


tVhat a horror they outpour 


Of the bells, bells, bells, 


On the bosom of the palpitating air ! 


To the sobbing of the bells ; 


Yet the ear, it fully knows, 


Keeping time, time, time, 



\ 



TEE HERMIT. 



595 



As he knells, knells, knells, 


To the tolling of the bells, 


In a happy Runic rhyme, 


Of the bells, bells, bells, bells- 


To the rolling of the bells, 


Bells, bells, bells, 


Of the bells, bells, bells, 


To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. 



THE HERMIT. 



JAMES BEATTIE. 



, eg 

n 



BSilT the close of the day, when the ham- 
let is still, 
And mortals the sweets of forgetful- 
ness prove, 
When naught but the torrent is 
heard on the hill, 




And naught but the nightingale's song in 
the grove, 
'Twas thus by the cave of the mountain afar, 
While his harp rung symphonious, a her- 
mit began ; 
No more with himself or with nature at war, 
He thought as a sage, though he felt as a 
man : 

" Ah ! why, all abandoned to darkness and 
woe, 



Why, lone Philomela, that languishing 
fall? 
For spring shall return, and a lover be- 
stow, 
And sorrow no longer thy bosom inthrall. 
But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay, — 
Mourn, sweetest complainer, man 
calls thee to mourn ; 
0, soothe him whose pleasures like 
thine pass away ! 
Full quickly they pass — but they 
never return. 

" Now gliding remote on the verge 
of the sky, 
The moon, half extinguished, her 
crescent displays ; 
But lately I marked when majestic 
on high 
She shone, and the planets were 
lost in her blaze. 
Roll on, thou fair orb, and with glad- 
ness pursue 
The path that conducts thee to 
splendor again ! 
But man's faded glory what change shall 
renew? 
Ah, fool ! to exult in a glory so vain ! 

" 'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no 
more. 
I mourn, — but, ye woodlands, I mourn not 
for you ; 

For morn is approaching your charms to re- 
store. 



596 



MRS. LOFTY AND I. 



Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glit- 


Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquished my 


tering with dew. 


pride ; 


Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn, — 


From doubt and from darkness thou only 


Kind nature the embryo blossom will save : 


canst free.' " 


But when shall spring visit the mouldering 




urn? 


" And darkness and doubt are now flying 


0, when shall day dawn on the night of 


away ; 


the grave ? 


No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn. 


So breaks on the traveler, faint and astray, 


" 'Twas thus, by the glare of false science 


The bright and the balmy effulgence of 


betrayed, 


morn. 


That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to 


See truth, love, and mercy in triumph de- 


blind, 


scending, 


My thoughts wont to roam from shade on- 


And nature all glowing in Eden's first 


ward to shade, 


bloom ! 


Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. 


On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses 


' pity, great Father of light,' then I cried, 


are blending, 


' Thy creature, who fain would not wander 


And beauty immortal awakes from the 


from thee ! 


tomb." 



WINTER SONG. 



LUDWIG HOLTY. 



Translated from the German by Charles T. Brooks. 



g§||UMMER joys are o'er; 

Flowrets bloom no more, 
Wintry winds are sweeping ; 
Through the snow-drifts peeping 

Cheerful evergreen 

Rarely now is seen. 

Now no plumed throng 
Charms the wood with song ; 
Ice-bound trees are glittering ; 



Merry snow-birds twittering, 
Fondly strive to cheer 
Scenes so cold and drear. 

"Winter, still I see 
Many charms in thee, — 
Love thy chilly greeting, 
Snow-storms fiercely beating, 
And the dear delights 
Of the long, long nights. 



MRS. LOFTY AND I. 

|S§|RS. LOFTY keeps a carriage, 
So do I ; 



She has dapple grays to draw it, 
|t " None have I , 

el She's no prouder with her coachman 

^ Than am I 

With my blue-eyed laughing baby 
Trundling by ; 



I hide his face, lest she should see 
The cherub boy, and envy me. 



Her fine husband has white fingers, 

Mine has not: 

He could give his bride a palace, 

Mine a cot ; 




Ice-bound trees are glittering ; 
Merry snow-birds twittering, 



Fondly strive to cheer 
Scenes so cold and drear. 



OUR SKATER BELLE. 



597 



Her's comes beneath the star-light, 


For I have love, and she has gold ; 


Ne'er cares she: 


She counts her wealth, mine can't be 


Mine comes in the purple twilight, 


told. 


Kisses me. 




And prays that He who turns life's sands, 




Will hold his lov'd ones in His hands. 


She has those that love her station, 




None have I ; 


Mrs. Lofty has her jewels, 


But I've one true heart beside me, 


So have I ; 


Glad am I ; 


She wears her's upon her bosom, 


I'd not change it for a kingdom, 


Inside I ; 


No not I ; 


She will leave her's at death's portals, 


God will weigh it in his balance, 


By and by : 


By and by ; 


I shall bear the treasure with me, 


And then the diff'rence 't will define 


When I die ; 


'Twixt Mrs. Lofty's wealth and mine. 



CLEON AND L 



CHAKLES MACEAY. 

7 * 

;LEON hath a million acres — ne'er a one 



w 

M have I; 

Cleon dwelleth in a palace — in a cot- 
tage, I ; 

Cleon hath a dozen fortunes — not a 
penny, I ; 

But the poorer of the twain is Cleon, 
and not I. 



Cleon, true, possesseth acres — but the land- 
scape, I ; 

Half the charms to me it yieldeth, money 
cannot buy ; 

Cleon harbors sloth and dullness — freshening 
vigor, I ; 

He in velvet, I in fustian ; richer man am I. 



Cleon is a slave to grandeur — free as thought 
am I ; 

Cleon fees a score of doctors — need of none 
have I. 

Wealth-surrounded, care-environed, Cleon 
fears to die ; 

Death may come — he'll find me ready — hap- 
pier man am I. 

Cleon sees no charm in nature — in a daisy, I ; 

Cleon hears no anthem ringing in the sea 
and sky. 

Nature sings to me forever — earnest listen- 
er, I; 

State for state, with all attendants, who 
would change ? Not I, 



OUR SKATER BELLE. 



||pp|LONG the frozen lake she comes 
3§|l In linking crescents, light and 
fleet; 
The ice-imprisoned Undine hums 
A welcome to her little feet. 

I see the jaunty hat, the plume 

Swerve bird-like in the joyous gale, — 



The cheeks lit up to burning bloom, 

The young eyes sparkling through the veil, 

The quick breath parts her laughing lips, 
The white neck shines through tossing 
curls ; 

Her vesture gently sways and dips, 
As on she speeds in 6hell-like whorls. 



698 



DEATH OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN. 



Men stop and smile to see her go ; 

They gaze, they smile in pleased surprise 
They ask her name, they long to show 

Some silent friendship in their eyes. 

She glances not ; she passes on ; 
Her stately footfall quicker rings ; 



She guesses not the benison 

Which follows her on noiseless wings. 

Smooth be her ways, secure her tread 
Along the devious lines of life, 

From grace to grace successive led, — 
A noble maiden, nobler wife ! 



ADVICE TO YOUNG MEN 



NOAH PORTER. 




•^jOUNGr men, you are the architects of your own fortunes. Kely 
upon your own strength of body and soul. Take for your star self- 
reliance, faith, honesty, and industry. Inscribe on your banner, 
" Luck is a fool, pluck is a hero/' Don't take too much advice — 
keep at your helm and steer your own ship, and remember that 
the great art of commanding is to take a fair share of the work. 
Don't practice too much humanity. Think well of yourself. Strike out. 
Assume your own position. Put potatoes in your cart, over a rough road, 
and small ones go to the bottom. Rise above the envious and jealous. 
Fire above the mark you intend to hit. Energy, invincible, determination, 
with a right motive, are the levers that move the world. Don't drink. 
Don't chew. Don't smoke. Don't swear. Don't deceive. Don't read 
novels. Don't marry until you can support a wife. Be in earnest. Be 
self-reliant. Be generous. Be civil. Bead the papers. Advertise your 
business. Make money and do good with it. Love your God and fellow men. 
Love truth and virtue. Love your country, and obey its laws. If this 
advice be implicitly followed by the young men of the country, the mil- 
lennium is at hand. 



DEATH OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN 




HENRY WARD BEECHER. 

HO shall recount our martyr's sufferings for this people since No- 
vember, 1860 ? His horizon had been black with storm by day 
and by night ; he has trod the way of danger and of darkness ; 
on his shoulders rested a government dearer to him than his own 
life. At its integrity millions of men were striking at home, and 
upon this government foreign eyes lowered. It stood a lone island 



DEATH OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN. 599 

in the sea, full of storms, and every tide and wave seemed eager to devour 
it. Upon thousands of hearts great sorrows and anxieties have rested, but 
not on one such or in such a measure as upon that simple, truthful, noble 
soul, our faithful and sainted Lincoln. Never rising to the enthusiasm of 
more impatient natures in hours of hope, and never sinking with mercurial 
natures in hours of defeat to such depths of despondency, he held on with 
immovable patience and fidelity, putting caution against hope that it might 
not be premature and hope against caution that it might not yield to 
dread and danger. He wrestled ceaselessly through four black and dread- 
ful purgatorial years wherein God was cleansing the sin of His people as 
by fire. At last the watcher beheld the gray dawn for the country ; the 
mountains began to give their forms forth from out of darkness, and the 
East came rushing towards us with arms full of joy for all our sorrows. 
Then it was for him to be glad exceedingly that had sorrowed immeasu- 
rably. Peace could bring no heart such joy, such rest, such honor, trust 
and gratitude. He but looked upon it as Moses looked upon the promised 
land, and then the wail of the nation proclaimed that he had gone from 
among us. Not thine the sorrow, but ours, sainted soul. Thou hast 
indeed entered the promised land while we yet are on the march. To us 
remains the rocking of the deep and the storm upon the land. Days of 
duty and nights of watching, but thou art sphered high above all dark- 
ness, far beyond all sorrow and weariness. Oh, weary heart, rejoice ex- 
ceedingly thou that hast enough suffered. Thou hast beheld Him who, 
invisibly, hath led thee in this great wilderness. Thou standest among 
the elect; around thee are the royal men that have ennobled human life in 
every age, and the coronet of glory on thy brow as a diadem of joy is upon 
thee for evermore. Over all this land, over all the little cloud of years 
that now from thy infinite horizon moves back as a speck, thou art lifted 
up as high as the star is above the cloud. In the goodly company of 
Mount Zion thou shalt find that rest which thou hast sorrowing sought ; 
and thy name, an everlasting name in Heaven, shall flourish in fragrance 
and beauty as long as the sun shall last upon the earth, and hearts remain 
to revere truth, fidelity and goodness. 

He who now sleeps has by this event been clothed with new influence. 
Dead, he speaks to men who now willingly hear what before they refused 
to listen to. Now his simple and weighty words will be gathered like 
those of Washington, and your children and children's children shall 
be taught to ponder the simplicity and deep wisdom of the utterances 
which, in time of party heat, passed as idle words. The patriotism of men 
will receive a new impulse, and men, for his sake, will love the whole 



600 



FUNERAL OF LINCOLN. 



country which he loved so well. I swear you on the altar of his memory 
to be more faithful to the country for which he has perished by his very 
perishing, and swear anew hatred to that slavery which made him a 
martyr and a conqueror. 

And now the martyr is moving in triumphal march, mightier than 
when alive. The nation rises up at every stage of his coming. Cities and 
States are his pall-bearers, and the cannon speaks the hours with solemn 
progression. Dead, dead, dead, he yet speaketh. Is Washington dead ? 
Is Hampden dead ? Is David dead ? Is any man that ever was fit to live 
dead? Disenthralled of flesh, risen to the unobstructed sphere where 
passion never comes, he begins his illimitable work. His life is now 
grafted upon the infinite, and will be fruitful, as no earthly life can be. 
Pass on, thou that hast overcome ! Your sorrows, oh people, are his peans, 
your bells and bands and muffled drums sound triumph in his ears. Wail 
and weep here ; God makes it echo joy and triumph there. Pass on ! 
Pour years ago, oh Illinois, we took from thy midst an untried man ; and 
from among the people ; we return him to you a mighty conqueror. Not 
thine any more, but the nation's ; not ours, but the world's. Give him 
place, oh ye prairies. In the midst of this great continent his dust shall 
rest, a sacred treasure to myriads who shall pilgrim to that shrine to kindle 
anew their zeal and patriotism. Ye winds that move over the mighty 
places of the West, chant his requiem ! Ye people behold the martyr 
whose blood, as so many articulate words, pleads for fidelity, for law, for 
liberty ! 



FUNERAL OF LINCOLN. 




RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. 



EACE ! Let the long procession come, 
For, hark ! — the mournful, muffled 
drum, 
The trumpet's wail afar ; 
And see ! the awful car ! 

Peace ! Let the sad procession go, 
While cannon boom, and bells toll slow. 

And go thou sacred car, 

Bearing our woe afar ! 



Go, darkly borne, from State to State, 
Whose loyal, sorrowing cities wait 



To honor all they can, 

The dust of that good man ! 

Go, grandly borne, with such a train 
As greatest kings might die to gain : 
The just, the wise, the brave 
Attend thee to the grave ! 

And you, the soldiers of our wars, 
Bronzed veterans, grim with noble scars, 
Salute him once again, 
Your late commander, — slam/ 



THE SUN IS WARM, THE SKY IS CLEAR. 



G01 



"Yes, let your tears indignant fall, 
But leave your muskets on the wall ; 
Your country needs you now 
Beside the forge, the plough ! 

So sweetly, sadly, sternly goes 

The fallen to his last repose. 

Beneath no mighty dome, 
But in his modest home, 

The churchyard where his children rest, 
The quiet spot that suits him best, 



There shall his grave be made, 
And there his bones be laid ! 

And there his countrymen shall come, 

With memory proud, with pity dumb, 

And strangers, far and near, 

For many and many a year ! 

For many a year and many an age, 
While History on her ample page 
The virtues shall enroll 
Of that paternal soul! 



THE SUN IS WARM, THE SKY IS CLEAR. 




PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



|HE sun is warm, the sky is clear, 
The waves are dancing fast and 

bright, 
Blue isles and snowy mountains 
wear 
The purple noon's transparent light : 
The breath of the moist air is light 
Around its unexpanded buds ; 
Like many a voice of one delight,— 
The winds', the birds', the ocean- 
floods', — 
The City's voice itself is soft like Soli- 
tude's. 

I see the Deep's untrampled floor 
With green and purple sea-weeds 

strown ; 
I see the waves upon the shore 
Like light dissolved in star-showers 

thrown ; 
I sit upon the sands alone ; 
The lightning of the noontide ocean 
Is flashing round me, and a tone 
Arises from its measured motion, — 
How sweet, did any heart now share 

in my emotion ! 

Alas ! I have nor hope nor health, 
Nor peace within nor calm around, 
Nor that Content surpassing wealth 



The sage in meditation found, 
And walked with inward glory crowned, — 
Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor lei- 
sure; 
Others I see whom these surround ; 
Smiling they live, and call life pleasure ; 
To me that cup has been dealt in another 
measure. 




Yet now despair itself is mild 
Even as the winds and waters are 
I could lie down like a tired child, 



602 



SEARCHING FOR THE SLAIN. 



And weep away the life of care 
Which I have borne, and yet must bear 
Till death like sleep might steal on me, 
And I might feel in the warm air 



My cheek grow cold, and hear the 
sea 
Breathe o'er my dying brain its last mo- 
notony. 



SEARCHING FOR THE SLAIN. 



rjfo 



JlJ^OLD the lantern aside, and shudder 
not so ; 
There's more blood to see than this 
stain on the snow ; 
I There are pools of it, lakes of it, just 
I over there, 

And fixed faces all streaked, and crimson- 
soaked hair. 
Did you think, when we came, you and I, 

out to-night 
To search for our dead, yon would be a fair 
sight? 

You're his wife ; you love him — you think 

so ; and I 
Am only his mother ; my boy shall not lie 
In a ditch with the rest, while my arms can 

bear 
His form to a grave that mine own may soon 

share. 
So, if your strength fails, best go sit by the 

hearth, 
While his mother alone seeks his bed on the 

earth. 

You will go ! then no faintings ! Give me 

the light, , 
And follow my footsteps — my heart will lead 

right. 
Ah, God! what is here? a great heap of the 

slain, 
All mangled and gory ! — what horrible pain 
These beings have died in ! Dear mothers, 

ye weep, 
Ye weep, oh, ye weep o'er this terrible sleep ! 

More ! more! Ah ! I thought I could never- 
more know 
Grief, horror, or pity, for aught here below, 
Since I stood in the porch and heard his 
chief tell 



How brave was my son, how he gallantly 

fell. 
Did they think I cared then to see officers 

stand 
Before my great sorrow, each hat in each 

hand? 

Why, girl, do you feel neither reverence nor 
fright, 

That your red hands turn over toward this 
dim light 

These dead men that stare so ? Ah, if you 
had kept 

Your senses this morning ere his comrades- 
had left, 

You had heard that his place was worst of 
them all, — 

Not 'mid the stragglers, — where he fought he 
would fall. 

There's the moon through the clouds : O 
Christ what a scene ! 

Dost Thou from Thy heavens o'er such vi- 
sions lean, 

And still call this cursed world a footstool of 
Thine? ■ 

Hark ! a groan ! there another, — here in this 
line 

Piled close on each other ! Ah, here is the 
flag, 

Torn, dripping with gore ; — bah ! they died 
for this rag. 

Here's the voice that we seek ; poor soul, do 

not start ; 
We're women, not ghosts. What a gash o'er 

the heart ! 
Is there aught we can do ? A message to 

give 
To any beloved one ? I swear, if I live, 
To take it for sake of the words my boy said. 



FKOM WASHINGTON'S INAUGURAL. 



603 



"Home," "mother," "wife," ere he reeled 
down 'mong the dead. 

But, first, can you tell where his regiment 

stood ? 
Speak, speak, man, or point ; 'twas the Ninth. 

Oh, the blood 
Is choking his voice ! What a look of 

despair ! 
There, lean on my knee, while I put back 

the hair 
From eyes so fast glazing. Oh, my darling, 

my own, 
My hands were both idle when you died alone. 

He's dying — he's dead ! Close his lids, let 

us go. 
God's peace on his soul ! If we only could 

know 
Where our own dear one lies ! — my soul has 

turned sick ; 
Must we crawl o'er these bodies that lie here 

so thick ? 
I cannot ! I cannot ! How eager you are ! 
One might think you were nursed on the red 

lap of War. 

He's not here — and not here. What wild 

hopes flash through 
My thoughts, as, foot-deep, I stand in this 

dread dew, 
And cast up a prayer to the blue, quiet sky ! 
Was it you, girl, that shrieked ? Ah ! what 

face doth lie 
Upturned toward me there, so rigid and 

white ? 
O God, my brain reels! 'Tis a dream. My 

old sight 

Is dimmed with these horrors. My son ! oh, 

my son ! 
Would I had died for thee, my own, only one ! 



There, lift off your arms ; let him come to 

the breast 
Where first he was lulled, with my soul's 

hymn, to rest. 
Your heart never thrilled to your lover's 

fond kiss 
As mine to his baby-touch ; was it for this ? 

He was yours, too ; he loved you ? Yes, yes. 
you're right. 

Forgive me, my daughter, I'm maddened to- 
night. 

Don't moan so, dear child ; you're young, 
and your years 

May still hold fair hopes ; but the old die of 
tears. 

Yes, take him aga^n ; — ah ! don't lay your 
face there ; 

See the blood from his wound has stained 
your loose hair. 

How quiet you are ! Has she fainted ? — her 

cheek 
Is cold as his own. Say a word to me, — speak ! 
Am I crazed ? Is she dead ? Has her heart 

broke first? 
Her trouble was bitter, but sure mine is 

worst. 
I'm afraid, I'm afraid, all alone with these 

dead ; 
Those corpses are stirring ; God help my poor 

head ! 

I'll sit by my children until the men come 
To bury the others, and then we'll go home. 
Why, the slain are all dancing ! Dearest, 

don't move. 
Keep away from my boy ; he's guarded by 

love. 
Lullaby, lullaby; sleep, sweet darling, sleep ! 
God and thy mother will watch o'er thee keep ! 



FROM WASHINGTON'S INAUGURAL. 



}T would be peculiarly improper to omit, in this first official act, my fer- 
vent supplications to that Almighty Being who rules over the uni- 
verse, who presides in the councils of nations, and whose providential 
aids can supply every human defect, that His benediction may conse- 



604 



FROM WASHINGTON'S INAUGURAL. 



crate, to the liberties and happiness of the people of the United States, 
a government instituted by themselves for these essential purposes, and 
may enable every instrument employed in the administration to execute 
with success the functions allotted to its charge. In tendering this homage 
to the Great Author of every public and private good, I assure myself that 
it expresses your sentiments not less than my own, nor those of my fellow- 
citizens at large less than either. 




MOUNT VEKNON, WASHINGTON S MODEST HOME. 



No people can be bound to acknowledge and adore the invisible hand 
which conducts the affairs of men more than the people of the United 
States. Every step by which they have advanced to the character of 
an independent nation seems to have been distinguished by some token 
of Providential agency ; and in the important revolution just accom- 
plished in the system of their united government, the tranquil deliberations 
and voluntary consent of so many distinct communities from which the 
event has resulted, cannot be compared with the means by which most 
governments have been 'established, without some return of pious gratitude, 
along with an humble anticipation of the future blessings which the past 
seems to presage. 



THE COUNTESS. 



605 



SLEEP OF THE BRA VE. 



WILLIAM COLLINS. 




OW sleep the brave, who sink to rest, 
By ail their country's wishes blessed! 
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, 
Returns to deck their hallowed mould, 
She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 



By fairy hands their knell is rung ; 
By forms unseen their dirge is sung ; 
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray, 
To bless the turf that wraps their clay ; 
And Freedom shall awhile repair, 
To dwell a weeping hermit there ! 




TEE COUNTESS. 



J. G. WHITTLES.. 




VER the wooded northern ridge, 
Between its houses brown, 
To the dark tunnel of the bridge, 
The street comes straggling down. 



You catch a glimpse, through birch and pine, 

Of gable, roof, and porch, 
The tavern with its swinging sign, 

The sharp horn of the church. 



The river's steel-blue crescent curves 

To meet in ebb and flow, 
The single broken wharf that serves 

For sloop and gundelow. 

With salt-sea scents along its shores. 

The heavy hay boats crawl, 
The long antennas of their oars 

In lazy rise and fall. 




606 



THE COUNTESS. 



Along the gray abutment's wall 
The idle shad-net dries : 

The toll-man, in his cobbler's stall, 
Sits smoking with closed eyes. 




You hear the pier's low undertone 
Of waves that chafe and gnaw ; 

You start, — a skipper's horn is blown 
To raise the creaking draw. 

At times the blacksmith's anvil sounds 
"With slow and sluggard beat, 

Or stage-coach on its dusty rounds 
Wakes up the staring street. 

A. place for idle eyes and ears, 
A cob-webbed nook of dreams, 

Left by the stream whose waves are years, 
The stranded village seems. 

And there, like other moss and rust, 

The native dweller clings, 
And keeps, in uninquiring trust, 

The old, dull round of things. 

The fisher drops his patient lines, 

The farmer sows his grain, 
Content to near the murmuring pines, 

Instead of railroad train. 

Go where, along the tangled steep 

That slopes against the west, 
The hamlet's buried idlers sleep 

In still profounder rest. 

Throw back the locust's flowery plume, 

The birch's pale-green scarf, 
And break the web of brier and bloom 

From name and epitaph. 

A simple muster-roll of death, 
Of pomp and romance shorn, 



The dry, old names that common-breath 
Has cheapened and outworn. 

Yet pause by one low mound, and part 

The wild vines o'er it laced, 
And read the words, by rustic art, 

Upon its head-stone traced. 

Haply yon white-haired villager 

Of four-score years can say, 
What means the noble name of her 

Who sleeps with common clay. 

An exile from the Gascon land 

Found refuge here and rest, 
And loved of all the village band, 

Its fairest and its best. 

He knelt with her on Sabbath morns, 
He worshiped through her eyes, 

And on the pride that doubts and scorns 
Stole in her faith's surprise. 

Her simple daily life he saw 

By homeliest duties tried, 
In all things by an untaught law 

Of fitness justified. 

For her his rank aside he laid ; 

He took the hue and tone 
Of lowly life and toil, and made 

Her simple ways his own. 

Yet still, in gay and careless ease, 

To harvest-field or dance 
He brought the gentle courtesies, 

The nameless grace of France. 

And she who taught him love, not less 

From him she loved in turn, 
Caught, in her sweet unconsciousness, 

What love is quick to learn. 

Each grew to each in pleased accord, 

Nor knew the gazing town 
If she looked upward to her lord, 

Or he to her looked down. 

How sweet when summer's day was o'er- 

His violin's mirth and wail, 
The walk on pleasant Newbury's shore, 

The river's moonlit sail ! 



SELF-RELIANCE. 



607 




Ah ! Life is brief, though love be long 

The altar and the bier, 
The burial hymn and bridal song, 

Were both in one short year. 

Her rest is quiet on the hill, 
Beneath the locust's bloom: 

Far off her lover sleeps as still 
Within his scutcheoned tomb. 

The Gascon lord, the village maid, 
In death still clasp their hands ; 

The love that levels rank and grade 
Unites their several lands. 



What matter whose the hillside grave. 

Or whose the blazoned stone ? 
Forever to her western wave 

Shall whisper blue Garonne ! 

love ! — so hallowing every soil 
That gives thy sweet flowers room, 

Wherever, nursed by ease or toil, 
The human heart takes bloom ! 

Plant of lost Eden, from the sod 

Of sinful earth unriven, 
White blossom of the trees of God 

Dropped down to us from heaven ' 

This tangled waste of mound and stone 

Is holy for thy sake ; 
A sweetness which is all thy own, 

Breathes out of fern and brake. 

And while ancestral pride shall twine 
The Gascon's tomb with flowers, 

Fall sweetly here, song of mine, 
With summer's bloom and showers. 

And let the lines that severed seem 

Unite again in thee, 
As western wave and Gallic stream 

Are mingled in one sea. 



SELF-RELIANCE. 



BALPH WALDO EMERSON. 



SUPPOSE no man can violate his nature. All the sallies of his will 
are rounded in by the law of his being, as the inequalities of Andes 
and Himalaya are insignificant in the curve of the sphere. Nor does 
i it matter how you gauge and try him. A character is like an 
i acrostic or Alexandrian stanza ; read it forward, backward, or across, 
t it still spells the same thing. In this pleasing, contrite, wood-life which 
God allows me, let me record day by day my honest thought without pros- 
pect or retrospect, and, I cannot doubt, it will be found symmetrical, 
though I mean it not, and see it not. My book should smell of pines, and 
resound with the hum of insects. The swallow over my window should 



608 SELF-RELIANCE. 



interweave that thread or straw he carries in his bill into my web also. 
We pass for what we are. Character teaches above our wills. Men 
imagine that they communicate their virtue or vice only by overt actions, 
and do not see that virtue or vice emit a breath every moment. Fear 
never but you shall be consistent in whatever variety of actions, so 
they be each honest and natural in their hour. For if one will, 
the actions will be harmonious, however unlike they seem. These varieties J 
are lost sight of when seen at a little distance, at a little height of thought. 
One tendency unites them all. The voyage of the best ship is a zigzag 
line of a hundred tacks. This is only microscopic criticism. See the line 
from a sufficient distance, and it straightens itself to the average tendency. 
Your genuine action will explain itself, and will explain your other genuine 
actions. Your conformity explains nothing. Act singly, and what you 
have cuready done singly will justify you now. Greatness always appeals 
to the future. If I can be great enough now to do right and scorn eyes 
I must have done so much right before as to defend me now. Be it how it 
will, do right now. Always scorn appearances, and you always may. The 
force of character is cumulative. All the foregone days of virtue work 
their health into this. What makes the majesty of the heroes of the senate 
and the field, which so fills the imagination ? The consciousness of a train 
of great days and victories behind. There they all stand and shed a 
united light on the advancing actor. He is attended as by a visible escort 
of angels to every man's eye. That is it which throws thunder into 
Chatham's voice, and dignity into Washington's port, and America into 
Adams' eye. Honor is venerable to us, because it is no ephemeris. It is 
always ancient virtue. We worship it to-day, because it is not of to-day. 
We love it, and pay it homage, because it is not a trap for our love and 
homage, but is self-dependent, self-derived, and therefore of an old, immacu- 
late pedigree, even if shown in a young person. I hope in these days we 
have heard the last of conformity and consistency. Let the words be 
gazetted, and ridiculous henceforward. Instead of the gong for dinner, let 
us hear a whistle from the Spartan fife. Let us bow and apologize never 
more. A great man is coming to eat at my house. I do not wish to 
please him ; I wish that he should wish to please me. I will stand here for 
humanity, and though I would make it kind, I would make it true. Let 
us affront and reprimand the smooth mediocrity and squalid contentment 
of the times, and hurl in the face of custom, and trade, and office, the fact 
which is the upshot of all history, that there is a great responsible 
Thinker and Actor moving wherever moves a man ; that a true man belongs 
to no other time or place, but is the centre of things. Where he is there 



NOCTURNAL SKETCH. 



609 



is nature. He measures you, and all men, and all events. You are con- 
strained to accept his standard. Ordinarily, everybody in society reminds 
us of somewhat else, or of some other person. Character, reality, reminds 
you of nothing else. It takes place of the whole creation. The man 
must be so much that he must make all circumstances indifferent, — put ail 
means into the shade. This all great men are and do. Every true man 
is a cause, a country, and an age; requires infinite spaces, and numbers, 
and time, fully to accomplish his thought ; and posterity seems to follow 
his steps as a procession. A man Caesar is born, and for ages after we 
have a Koman Empire. Christ is born, and millions of minds so grow 
and cleave to his genius, that he is confounded with virtue and the 
possible of man. An institution is the lengthened shadow of one man ; 
as the Reformation of Luther; Quakerism of Fox; Methodism of 
Wesley ; Abolition of Clarkson. Scipio, Milton called " the height of 
Rome ;" and all history resolves itself very easily into the biography of a 
few stout and earnest persons. 



NOCTURNAL SKETCH. 



THOMAS HOOD. 




|BVEN is come ; and from the dark Park, 
hark, 
The signal of the setting sun — one 

gun! 
And six is sounding from the chime, 

prime time 
To go and see the Drury-Lane Dane 
slain, — 
Or hear Othello's jealous doubt spout out, — 
Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made 

blade, 
Denying to his frantic clutch much touch ; — 
Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride ride 
Four horses as no other man can span ; 
Or An the small Olympic Pitt sit split 
'.Laughing at Liston, while you quiz his 
phiz. 

Anon night comes, and with her wings brings 

things 
Such as, with his poetic tongue, Young 

»ung; 
39 



The gas up-blazes with its bright white 

light, 
And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, 

growl, 
About the streets and take up Pall -Mall Sal, 
Who, hasting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs. 

Now thieves to enter for your cash, smash, 

crash, 
Past drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep, creep, 
But, frightened by Policeman B. 3, flee, 
And while they're going, whisper low, " No 

go!" 

Now puss, while folks are in their beds, treads 

leads, 
And sleepers waking, grumble, — " Drat that 

cat!" 
Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, mauls, 
Some feline foe, and screams in shrill ill-will. 

Now Bulls of Bashan, of a prize size, rise 



6x0 



THE SABBATH. 



In childish dreams, and with a roar gore 
poor 

Gregory, or Charley, or Billy, willy-nilly ; — 

But Nursemaid in a nightmare rest, chest- 
pressed, 

Dreameth of one of her old flames, James 
Games. 



And that she hears — what faith is man's — 

Ann's banns 
And his, from Reverend Mr. Rice, twicfy 

thrice ; 
White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out, 
That upward goes, shows Rose knows those 

bows' woes ! 



THE SABBATH. 



o£fe 



JAMES GRAHAME. 



j§|jgOW still the morning of the hallowed I Calmness sits throned on yon unmovmg 
day ! cloud. 



J 




Mute is the voice of rural labor, hushed 
The ploughboy's whistle and the milk-maid's 

song. 
The scythe lies glittering in the dewy 

wreath 
Of tedded grass mingled with fading flowers, 
That yestermorn bloomed, waving in the 

breeze ; 
Sounds the most faint attract the ear, — the 

hum 
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew, 
The distant bleating, midway up the hill. 



To him who wanders o'er the upland leas 
The blackbird's note comes mellower from 

the dale ; 
And sweeter from the sky the gladsome 

lark 
Warbles his heaven-tuned song ; the lulling 

brook 
Murmurs more gently down the deep-wOrn 

glen; 
While from yon lowly roof, whose circling 

smoke 
O'er mounts the mist, is heard at intervals 



MY MOTHER'S BIBLE. 



611 



The voice of psalms, the simple song of 

praise. 
With dove-like wings Peace o'er yon village 

broods ; 
The dizzying mill-wheel rests ; the anvil's 

din 
Hath ceased ; all, all around is quietness. 
Less fearful on this day, the limping hare 



Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks 

on man, 
Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set 

free, 
Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large ; 
And as his stiff, unwieldy bulk he rolls, 
His iron-armed hoofs gleam in the morning 

ray. 



MY MOTHERS BIBLE. 



ANONYMOUS. 



PEST one of the shelves in my library, surrounded by volumes of all kinds 
on various subjects, and in various languages, stands an old book, 
in its plain covering of brown paper, unprepossessing to the eye, and 
2* apparently out of place among the more pretentious volumes that 

f stand by its side. To the eye of a stranger it has certainly 

1 neither beauty nor comeliness. Its covers are worn ; its leaves 

marred by long use ; yet, old and worn as it is, to me it is the most beauti- 
ful and most valuable book on my shelves. No other awakens such asso- 
ciations, or so appeals to all that is best and noblest within me. It is, 
or rather it was, my mother's Bible — companion of her best and holiest 
hours, source of her unspeakable joy and consolation. From it she derived 
the principles of a truly Christian life and character. It was the light to 
her feet, and the lamp to her path. It was constantly by her side ; and, 
as her steps tottered in the advancing pilgrimage of life, and her eyes 
grew dim with age, more and more precious to her became the well-worn 
pages. 

One morning, just as the stars were fading into the dawn of the 
coming Sabbath, the aged pilgrim passed on beyond the stars and beyond 
the morning, and entered into the rest of the eternal Sabbath — to look 
upon the face of Him of whom the law and the prophets had spoken, and 
whom, not having seen, she had loved. And now, no legacy is to me more 
precious than that old Bible. Years have passed; but it stands there on 
its shelf, eloquent as ever, witness of a beautiful life that is finished, and a 
silent monitor to the living. In hours of trial and sorrow it says, " Be 
not cast down, my son ; for thou shalt yet praise Him who is the health of 
thy countenance and thy God." In moments of weakness and fear it 
says, " Be strong, my son; and quit yourself manfully." When some- 



612 



BREAD ON THE WATERS. 



times, from the cares and conflicts of external life, I come back to the 
study, weary of the world and tired of men — of men that are so hard and 
selfish, and a world that is so unfeeling — and the strings of the soul have 
become untuned and discordant, I seem to hear that Book saying, as with 
the well-remembered tones of a voice long silent, "Let not your heart be 
troubled. For what is your life? It is even as a vapor." Then my 
troubled spirit becomes calm; and the little world, that had grown so 
great and so formidable, sinks into its true place again. I am peaceful, I 
am strong. 

There is no need to take down the volume from the shelf, or open it. 
A glance of the eye is sufficient. Memory and the law of association sup- 
ply the rest. Yet there are occasions when it is otherwise ; hours in life 
when some deeper grief has troubled the heart, some darker, heavier cloud 
is over the spirit and over the dwelling, and when it is a comfort to take 
down that old Bible and search its pages. Then, for a time, the latest edi- 
tions, the original languages, the notes and commentaries, and all the 
critical apparatus which the scholar gathers around him for the study of 
the Scriptures, are laid aside ; and the plain old English Bible that was 
my mother's is taken from the shelf, 



BREAD ON THE WATERS. 




GEORGE L. CATLIN. 



MA 

~|g?ISTER," the little fellow said, 

" Please give me a dime to buy 
some bread." 



I turned to look at the ragged form, 
That, in the midst of the pitiless storm, 
Pinched and haggard and old with 
care, 
In accents pleading, was standing there. 
'Twas a little boy not twelve years old : 
He shivered and shook in the bitter cold, 
His eyes were red — with weeping, I fear — 
And adown his cheeks there rolled a tear 
E'en then. 

His misery struck me dumb ; 
'Twas a street in a crowded city slum, 
Where an errrand of duty led my feet 



That day, through the storm and blinding 

sleet. 
"Poor little fellow !" at last I said, 
" Have you no father?" 

"No, he's dead!" 
The answer came : " You've a mother, then ?" 
" Yes, sir," he said, with a sob : " She's been 
Sick for a year, and the doctor said 
She'd never again get up from bed." 
" You are hungry, too !" I asked in pain, 
As I looked at his poor, wan face again. 
'' Hungry," he said, with a bitter groan 
That would melt to pity a heart of stone ; 
" I am starved ; we are all starving," he said, 
" We haven't had a crust of bread — 
Me, nor mother, nor baby Kate — 
Since yesterday morning." 



THE BELFRY PIGEON. 



613 



I did not wait 
To ask him more. " Come, come," I cried, 
" You shall not hunger ;" and at my side 
His poor little pattering footsteps fell 
On my ear with a sadness I cannot tell ; 
But his eyes beamed bright when he saw me 

•stop 
Before the door of a baker's shop, 
And we entered. 

" Now eat away, my boy, 
As much as you like," I said. With joy, 
And a soft expression of childish grace, 
He looked up into my friendly face, 
And sobbed, as he strove to hide a tear : 
" Oh, if mother and baby Kate were here !" 
'" But eat," said I, "never mind them now," 
A thoughtful look stole over his brow, 
And lo ! from his face the joy had fled. 
" What ! While they're starving at home !" 

he said : 
" Oh, no, sir ! I'm hungry, indeed, 'tis true, 
But I cannot eat till they've had some too." 

The tears came rushing — I can't tell why — 
To my eyes, as he spoke these words. Said I : 
■" God bless you ! Here, you brave little man, 



Here, carry home all the bread you can." 
Then I loaded him down with loaves, until 
He could carry no more. I paid the bill ; 
And before he could quite understand 
Just what I was doing, into his hand 
I slipped a bright new dollar ; then said, 
" Good-by," and away on my journey sped. 

'Twas four years ago. But one day last May, 
As I wandered by chance through East 

Broadway, 
A cheery voice accosted me. Lo ! 
'Twas the self-same lad of years ago, 
Though larger grown — and his looks, in truth, 
Bespoke a sober, industrious youth. 

" Mister," he said, " I'll never forget 

The kindness you showed when last we met. 

I work at a trade, and mother is well, 

So is baby Kate ; and I want to tell 

You this — that we owe it all to you. 

'Twas you — don't blush, sir — that helped us 

through 
In our darkest hour ; and we always say 
Our luck has been better since that day 
When you sent me home with bread to feed 
Those starving ones in their hour of need." 



THE BELFRY PIGEON. 




N. P, WILLIS. 



\N the cross-beam under the Old South 
bell 

The nest of a pigeon is builded well, 

In summer and winter that bird is 
there, 

Out and in with the morning air. 

I love to see him track the street, 
With his wary eye and active feet ; 
And I often watch him as he springs, 
Circling the steeple with easy wings, 
Till across the dial his shade has passed, 
And the belfry edge is gained at last. 
'Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note, 
And the trembling throb in its mottled throat ; 
There's a human look in its swelling breast, 



And the gentle curve of its lowly crest ; 
And I often stop with the fear I feel, 
He runs so close to the rapid wheel. 

Whatever is rung on that noisy bell, 
Chime of the hour or funeral knell, 
The dove in the belfry must hear it well. 
When the tongue swings out to the midnight 

moon, 
When the sexton cheerily rings for noon, 
When the clock strikes clear at morning light, 
When the child is waked with " nine at night," 
When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air, 
Filling the spirit with tones of prayer, 
Whatever tale in the bell is heard, 



614 



THE RESPONSIVE CHORD. 



He broods on his folded feet, unstirred, 
Or, rising half in his rounded nest, 
He takes the time to smooth his breast : 
Then drops again, with filmed eyes, 
And sleeps as the last vibration dies. 

Sweet bird ! I would that I could be 
A hermit in the crowd like thee ! 
With wings to fly to wood and glen, 
Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men ; 
And daily, with unwilling feet, 
I tread, like thee, the crowded street ; 
But, unlike me, when day is o'er, 
Thou canst dismiss the world, and soar 



Or, at a half-felt wish for rest, 

Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast, 

And drop, forgetful, to thy nest. 

I would that in such wings of gold, 

I could my weary heart up-fold ; 

I would I could look down unmoved, 

( Unloving as I am unloved,) 

And while the world throngs on beneath, 

Smooth down my cares, and calmly breathe ; 

And never sad with others' sadness, 

And never glad with others' gladness, 

Listen, unstirred, to knell or chime, 

And, lapped in quiet, bide my time. 



THE RESPONSIVE CHORD. 



J. WILLIAM JONES. 



gBiN the early spring of 1863, when the Confederate and Federal armies 
eK were confronting each other on the opposite hills of Stafford and 
Jk Spottsylvania, two bands chanced one evening, at the same hour, to 
!> begin to discourse sweet music on either bank of the river. A large 
f crowd of the soldiers of both armies gathered to listen to the music, 
i the friendly pickets not interfering, and soon the bands began to answer 
each other. First the band on the northern bank would play "Star 
Spangled Banner/' " Hail Columbia," or some other national air, and at 
its conclusion the " boys in blue " would cheer most lustily. And then 
the band on the southern bank would respond with " Dixie " or " Bonnie 
Blue Flag," or some other Southern melody, and the " boys in gray " 
would attest their approbation with an " old Confederate yell." But pres- 
ently one of the bands struck up, in sweet and plaintive notes which were 
wafted across the beautiful Rappahannock, were caught up at once by the 
other band and swelled into a grand anthem which touched every heart, 
" Home, Sweet Home ! " At the conclusion of this piece there went up a 
simultaneous shout from both sides of the river — cheer followed cheer, and 
those hills, which had so recently resounded with hostile guns, echoed and 
re-echoed the glad acclaim. A chord had been struck responsive to which 
the hearts of enemies — enemies then — could beat in unison ; and, on both 
sides of the river, 

" Something down the soldier's cheek 
Washed off the stains of powder." 



THE TRUE TEMPLE. 



615 




THE TRUE TEMPLE, 




f 



OT where high towers rear 

Their lofty heads above some costly 

fane, 
Doth God our Heavenly Father on- 
ly deign 
Our humble prayers to hear, — 



Not where the lapsing hours 
The cankering footprints of the spoiler, time, 
Are idly noted with a sounding chime, 

From proud cathedral towers ; 

Not where the chiseled stone, 
And shadowy niche, and shaft and architrave, 
The dim old chancel, or the solemn nave 

Seem vast and chill and lone ; 



Not 'neath the vaulted dome, 
Or fretted roof, magnificently flung, 
O'er cushioned seats, or curtained desks o'er- 
hung 

With rare work of the loom ; 

Not where the sunlight falls 
From the stained oriel with a chastened shade, 
O'er sculptured tombs where mighty ones are 
laid, 

Till the last trumpet calls ; 

Not where rich music floats 
Through the hushed air until the soul is stirred, 
As 't were a chord from that bright land as 
heard 

When angels swell the notes. 



610 



THE DRUMMER BOY. 



Perchance 'tis well to raise 


Yet are His humbler sanctuaries blest 


These palace temples, thus rich wrought, to 


With equal love and care. 


Him 




Who 'midst His thousand thousand cherubims 


Aye, wheresoe'er on earth 


Can stoop to list our praise. 


Or on the shore or on the far blue sea 




His children, offspring of the true, may be, 


Yet when our spirits bow 


There hath his spirit birth. 


And sue for mercy at His sacred shrine, 




Can all the trappings of the teeming mine 


Our sins may be forgiven, 


Light up the darkened brow ? 


As, weak and few, our prayers go up to God ; 




E'en though our temple floor be earth's green 


no ! — God may be there — 


sod, 


His smile may on such costly altars rest ; 


Its roof the vault of heaven. 



THE DRUMMER BOY. 



AN INCIDENT OF THE CRIMEAN WAR. 




APTAIN Graham, the men were 



saym 
Ye would want a drummer lad. 
So I've brought my boy Sandie, 

Tho' my heart is woful sad ; 
But nae bread is left to feed us, 

And no siller to buy more, 
For the gudeman sleeps forever, v 
Where the heather blossoms o'er. 



" Sandie, make your manners quickly, 

Play your blithest measure true — 
Give us ' Flowers of Edinboro',' 

While yon fifer plays it too. 
Captain, heard ye e'er a player 

Strike in truer time than he ?" 
" Nay, in truth, brave Sandie Murray 

Drummer of our corps shall be." 

" I give ye thanks — but, Captain, maybe 

Ye will hae a kindly care 
For the friendless, lonely laddie, 

When the battle wark is sair • 
For Sandie's aye been good and gentle, 

And I've nothing else to love, 
Nothing — but the grave off yonder, 

And the Father up above." 

Then her rough hand gently laying 
On the curl-encircled head, 



She blest her boy. The tent was silent, 
And not another word was said ; 

For Captain Graham was sadly dreaming 
Of a benison, long ago, 

Breathed above his head, then golden, 
Bending now, and touched with snow. 

"Good-bye, Sandie." "Good-bye, mother, 

I'll come back some summer day ; 
Don't you fear — they don't shoot drummers 

Ever. Do they, Captain Gra — ? 
One more kiss — watch for me, mother, 

You will know 'tis surely me 
Coming home — for you will hear me 

Playing soft the reveille." 

After battle. Moonbeams ghastly 

Seemed to link in strange affright, 
As the scudding clouds before them 

Shadowed faces dead and white ; 
And the night wind softly whispered, 

When low moans its light wing bore — 
Moans that ferried spirits over 

Death's dark wave to yonder shore. 

Wandering where a footstep careless 
Might go splashing down in blood, 

Or a helpless hand lie grasping 
Death and daisies from the sod — 



THE BALLOT-BOX. 



617 



Captain Graham walked swift onward, 


" Oh, Captain Graham, the light is coming, 


While a faintly-beaten drum 


'Tis morning, and my prayers are said. 


Quickened heart and step together : 




" Sandie Murray ! See, I come ! 


" Morning ! See, the plains grow brighter — ■ 




Morning — and I'm going home ; 


" Is it thus I find you, laddie ? 


That is why I play the measure, 


Wounded, lonely, lying here, 


Mother will not see me come ; 


Playing thus the reveille ? 


But you'll tell her, won't you, Captain — ' v 


See — the morning is not near." 


Hush, the boy has spoken true ; 


A moment paused the drummer boy, 


To him the day has dawned forever, 


And lifted up his drooping head : 


Unbroken by the night's tattoo. 



THE BALLOT-BOX. 



E. H. CHAPIN. 



™ AM aware that the ballot-box is not everywhere a consistent symbol ; 
Jb& but to a large degree it is so. I know what miserable associations 

f cluster around this instrument of popular power. I know that the 
arena in which it stands is trodden into mire by the feet of reckless 
¥ ambition and selfish greed. The wire-pulling and the bribing, the 
* pitiful truckling and the grotesque compromises, the exaggeration and 
the detraction, the melo-dramatic issues and the sham patriotism, the party 
watchwords and the party nicknames, the schemes of the few paraded as 
the will of the many, the elevation of men whose only worth is in the votes 
they command, — vile men, whose hands you would not grasp in friendship, 
whose presence you would not tolerate by your fireside — incompetent men, 
whose fitness is not in their capacity as functionaries, or legislators, but as 
organ pipes ; — the snatching at the slices and offal of office, the intemper- 
ance and the violence, the finesse and the falsehood, the gin and the glory ; 
these are indeed but too closely identified with that political agitation 
which circles around the ballot-box. 

But, after all, they are not essential to it. They are only the masks 
of a genuine grandeur and importance. For it is a grand thing, — some- 
thing which involves profound doctrines of right, — something which has 
cost ages of effort and sacrifice,— it is a grand thing that here, at last, 
each voter has just the weight of one man ; no more, no less ; and the 
weakest, by virtue of his recognized manhood, is as strong as the mightiest. 
And consider, for a moment, what it is to cast a vote. It is the token ol 
inestimable privileges, and involves the responsibilities of an hereditary 
trust. It has passed into your hands as a right, reaped from fields ol sui- 



618 



THE REVEILLE. 



fering and blood. The grandeur of history is represented in your act. 
Men have wrought with pen and tongue, and pined in dungeons, and died 
on scaffolds, that you might obtain this symbol of freedom, and enjoy this 
consciousness of a sacred individuality. To the ballot have been trans- 
mitted, as it were, the dignity of the sceptre and the potency of the 
sword. 

And that which is so potent as a right, is also pregnant as a duty ; 
a duty for the present and for the future. If you will, that folded leaf 
becomes a tongue of justice, a voice of order, a force of imperial law; 
securing rights, abolishing abuses, erecting new institutions of truth and 
love. And, however you will, it is the expression of a solemn responsibil- 
ity, the exercise of an immeasurable power for good or for evil, now and 
hereafter. It is the medium through which you act upon your country, — 
the organic nerve which incorporates you with its life and welfare. There 
is no agent with which the possibilities of the republic are more intimately 
involved, none upon which we can fall back with more confidence than the 
ballot-box. 



THE REVEILLE. 



T. B. HART. 



|ra|^ARK ! I hear the tramp of thousands, 
|jp|&J And of armed men the hum — 
j^ggr Lo ! a nation's hosts have gathered 
Round the quick alarming drum, 
Saying, " Come, 
Freemen, come, 
Ere your heritage be wasted !" said the quick 
alarming drum. 

" Let me of my heart take counsel — 

War is not of Life the sum ; 
Who shall stay and reap the harvest 

When the autumn days shall come ?" 
But the drum 
Echoed, "Come! 
Death shall reap the braver harvest !" said 
the solemn-sounding drum. 

" But when won the coming battle, 
What of profit springs therefrom ? 

What if conquest, subjugation, 
Even greater ills become ?" 



But the drum 
Answered, "Come! 
You must do the sum to prove it !" said the 
Yankee-answering drum. 

What if, 'mid the cannon's thunder, 

Whistling shot and bursting bomb, 
When my brethren fall around me, 

Should my heart grow cold and numb V 
But the drum 
Answered, " Come ! 
Better there in death united than in life a 
recreant — come !" 

Thus they answered— hoping, fearing— 
Some in faith, and doubting some- 
Till a trumpet-voice, proclaiming, 

Said, " My chosen people, come !" 
Then the drum, 
Lo ! was dumb, 
For the great heart of the nation, throbbing 
answered, " Lord we come !" 



LABOR IS WORSHIP. 



619 



SEVEN TIMES TWO. 



JEAN INGELOW. 



^|t=OU bells in the steeple, ring, ring out 
your changes, 
'<&? How many soever they be, 

And let the brown meadow-lark's 
note as he ranges 
Come over, come over to me. 



Yet birds' clearest carol by fall or by swell- 
ing 
No magical sense conveys, 
And bells have forgotten their old art of 
telling 
The fortune of future days. 



" Turn again, turn again," once they rang 
cheerily 
While a boy listened alone : 
Made his heart yearn again, musing so 
wearily 
All by himself on a stone. 

Poor bells ! I forgive you ; your good days 
are over, 
And mine, they are yet to be ; 
No listening, no longing, shall aught, aught 
discover : 
You leave the story to me. 



LABOR IS WORSHIP. 



FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 



From the rough sod blows the soft-breathing 

flower ; - 

From the small insect, the rich coral bower ; 
Only man, in the plan, ever shrinks from 

his part. 



J|jii|AUSE not to dream of the future be- 
j Hl^j fore us ; 

ftipl Pause not to weep the wild cares that 
Sm come o'er us; 

Hark, how Creation's deep, musical 
chorus, 
Unintermitting, goes up into ==^* 

heaven ! 
Never the ocean wave falters in flowing ; _ . 
Never the little seed stops in its growing ; 
More and more richly the rose-heart 
keeps glowing, 
Till from its nourishing stem it is ^^J^S 
riven. >|T 

" Labor is worship !" — the robin is sing- 
ing ; 

" Labor is worship !" — the wild bee is 
ringing; 

Listen ! that eloquent whisper upspring- '^ t^t^S^^^^B^^Si^ 
ing 
Speaks to thy soul from out Nature's great j Labor is life ! 'Tis the still water faileth ; 
heart. j Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth ; 

-From the dark cloud flows the life-giving Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust as 
shower ; saileth ; 




620 



LABOR IS WORSHIP. 



Flowers droop and die in the stillness of 
noon. 

Labor is glory ! — the flying cloud lightens ; 
Only the waving wing changes and brightens ; 
Idle hearts only the dark future frightens ; 
Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep 
them in tune. 

Labor is rest from the sorrows that greet us, 
Rest from all petty vexations that meet us, 
Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us, 



How his strong arm, in its stalwart pride- 
sweeping, 
True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides, 

Labor is wealth ! In the sea the pearl grow- 
eth; 

Rich the queen's robe from the frail cocoon 
floweth ; 

From the fine acorn the strong forest blow-- 
eth; 
Temple and statue the marble block 
hides. 




Rest from world-sirens* that lure us to ill. 
Work — and pure slumbers shall wait on thy 

pillow ; 
Work — thou shalt ride over Care's coming 

billow ; 
Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping- 
willow ; 
Work with a stout heart and resolute will ! 

Labor is health ! Lo, the husbandman reaping, 
How through his veins goes the life current 
leaping ! 



Droop not, though shame, sin, and anguish. 

are round thee ; 
Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath. 

bound thee ; 
Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee ; 
Rest not content in thy darkness — a clod. 
Work for some good, be it ever so slowly ; 
Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly ; 
Labor! all labor is noble and holy ; 

Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy 

God. 



THE TOMBS OF WESTMINSTER. 621 



THE TOMBS OF WESTMINSTER. 



WASHING-TON IRVING. 






§§| KOSE and prepared to leave the abbey. As I descended the flight of 
PI steps which leads into the body of the building, my eye was caught 
X, by the shrine of Edward the Confessor, and I ascended the small 
<j> staircase that conducts to it, to take from thence a general survey of 
¥ this wilderness of tombs. The shrine is elevated upon a kind of 
I platform, and close around it are the sepulchres of various kings and 
queens. From this eminence the eye looks down between pillars and 
funeral trophies to the chapels and chambers below, crowded with tombs ; 
where warriors, prelates, courtiers and statesmen, lie mouldering in their 
beds of darkness. Close by me stood the great chair of coronation, 
rudely carved of oak, in the barbarous taste of a remote and Gothic age. 
The scene seemed almost as if contrived, with theatrical artifice, to produce 
an effect upon the beholder. Here was a type of the beginning and the end 
of human pomp and power ; here it was literally but a step from the 
throne to the sepulchre. Would not one think that these incongruous 
mementos had been gathered together as a lesson to living greatness ? — 
to show it, even in the moment of its proudest exaltation, the neglect and 
dishonor to which it must soon arrive, how soon that crown which encircles 
its brow must pass away, and it must lie down in the dust and disgraces of 
the tomb, and be trampled upon by the feet of the meanest of the multitude. 
The last beams of day were now faintly streaming through the 
painted windows in the high vaults above me; the lower parts of the 
abbey were already wrapped in the obscurity of twilight. The chapels 
and aisles grew darker and darker. The effigies of the kings faded into 
shadows ; the marble figures of the monuments assumed strange shapes in 
the uncertain light; the evening breeze crept through the aisles like the 
cold breath of the grave ; and even the distant footfall of a verger, trav- 
ersing the Poet's Corner, had something strange and dreary in its sound. 
I slowly retraced my morning's walk, and as I passed out at the portals of 
the cloisters, the door, closing with a jarring noise behind me, filled the 
whole building with echoes. 

I endeavored to form some arrangement in my mind of the objects I 
had been contemplating, but found they were already fallen into indistinct- 
ness and confusion. Names, inscriptions, trophies, had all become con- 
founded in my recollection, though I had scarcely taken my foot from off 
the threshold. What, thought I, is this vast assemblage of sepulchres lufc 



622 THE LOST CHURCH. 



a treasury of humiliation ; a huge pile of reiterated homilies on the empti- 
ness of renown, and the certainty of oblivion ! It is, indeed, the empire 
of death; his great shadowy palace, where he sits in state, mocking at the 
relics of human glory, and spreading dust and forgetfulness on the monu- 
ments of princes. How idle a boast, after all, is the immortality of a 
name ! Time is ever silently turning over his pages ; we are too much 
engrossed by the story of the present, to think of the characters and anec- 
dotes that gave interest to the past, and each age is a volume thrown aside 
to be speedily forgotten. The idol of to-day pushes the hero of yesterday 
out of our recollection ; and will, in turn, be supplanted by his successor 
to-morrow. " Our fathers," says Sir Thomas Brown, " find their graves 
in our short memories, and sadly tell us how we may be buried in our sur- 
vivors." History fades into fable; fact becomes clouded with doubt and 
controversy ; the inscription moulders from the tablet ; the statue falls from 
the pedestal. Columns, arches, pyramids, what are they but heaps of sand ; 
and their epitaphs, but characters written in the dust? What is the 
security of a tomb, or the perpetuity of an embalmment ? The remains 
of Alexander the Great have been scattered to the wind, and his empty 
sarcophagus is now the mere curiosity of a museum. " The Egyptian 
mummies, which Cambyses or time hath spared, avarice now consumeth ; 
Mizraim cures wounds, and Pharaoh is sold for balsams." 

"What then is to insure this pile which now towers above me from 
sharing the fate of mightier mausoleums ? The time must come when its 
gilded vaults, which now spring so loftily, shall lie in rubbish beneath the 
feet ; when, instead t)f the sound of melody and praise, the wind shall 
whistle through the broken arches, and the owl hoot from the scattered 
tower — when the garish sunbeam shall break into these gloomy mansions 
of death, and the ivy twine round the fallen column ; and the fox-glove 
hang its blossoms about the nameless urn, as if in mockery of the dead. 
Thus man passes away ; his name perishes from record and recollection ; 
his history is as a tale that is told, and his very monument becomes a ruin. 



THE LOST CHURCH. 



FROM THE GERMAN OF J. L. UHLAND. 



N yon dense wood full oft a bell 

Is heard o'erhead in pealings hollow 
Yet whence it comes can no one tell, 

Nor scarce its dark tradition follow. 
For winds the chimes are wafting o'er, 



Of the lost church in mystery shrouded ; 
The pathway, too, is known no more, 
That once the pious pilgrims crowded. 

I lately in that wood did stray, 



CLEAR THE WAY. 



623 



Where not a footworn path extended, 
And from corruptions of the day 

My inmost soul to God ascended ; 
And in the silent, wild repose 

I heard that ringing deeper, clearer ; 
The higher my aspirings rose, 

The sound descended fuller, nearer. 

That sound my senses so entranced, 

My soul grew so retired and lowly, 
I ne'er could tell how it had chanced 

That I had reached a state so holy. 
A century, it seemed to me, 

Or more, had passed while I was dreaming, 
When I a radiant place could see 

Above the mists, with sunlight streaming. 

The heavens a deep, dark blue appeared, 

The sun's fierce light and heat were flow- 
ing- 
And in the golden light upreared, 

A proud cathedral pile was glowing. 
It seemed to me the clouds so bright, 

As if on wings, that pile was raising, 
Until its spires were lost to sight 

Within the blessed heavens blazing. 

And lo ! that sweet bell's music broke 
In quivering streams from out the tower ; 

No mortal hand its tones awoke — 
That bell was rung by holy power. 



And through my beating heart, too, swept 
That power in fuli and perfect measure ; 

And then in that high dome I stepped 
With faltering feet and tim'rous pleasure.. 

Yet can I not in words make known 

What then I felt. On windows painted,. 
And darkly clear, around me shown, 

Were pious scenes of martyrs sainted. 
Thus wondrous clear mine eyes before, 

Did they of life a picture show me : 
And out into a world I saw, 

Of women and God's warriors holy. 

I knelt before the altar there — 

Devotion, love, all through me stealing — 
And all the Heaven's glory fair 

Was o'er me painted on the ceiling ; 
And lo ! when next I upward gazed, 

The dome's vast arch had burst, and — 
wonder ! — 
The Heaven's gate wide open blazed, 

And every veil was rent asunder ! 

What glories on mine eyes did fall 

While thus in reverent awe still kneeling, 
What holier sounds I heard than all 

Of trumpet blast or organ pealing, 
No words possess the power to tell ! 

Who truly would such bliss be feeling, 
Go listen to the wondrous bell 

That, weird-like, through the wood is peal-- 
ins. 



CLEAR THE WAY. 




CHARLES MACKAY. 



EN of thought, be up and stirring 
night and day : 

Sow the seed — withdraw the cur- 
tain — clear the way ! 

Men of action, aid and cheer them. 



■-t ye may 



There's a fount about to stream, 
There's a light about to beam, 
There's a warmth about to glow, 
There's a flower about to blow : 



There's a midnight blackness changing into 

gray. 
Men of thought and men of afition, clear 

the way ! 

Once the welcome light has broken, who 

shall say 
What the unimagined glories of the day ? 
What the evil that shall perish in its ray ? 
Aid the dawning, tongue and pen ;. 



624 



THE NOBLE REVENGE. 



Aid it, hopes of honest men, 
Aid it, paper ; aid it, type ; 
Aid it, for the hour is ripe, 
And our earnest must not slacken into 

play. 
Men of thought and men of action, clear the 
way ! 

Lo ! a cloud's about to vanish from the 

day; 
.And a brazen wrong to crumble into clay. 



Lo ! the right's about to conquer ; clear the 
way! 

With the right shall many more 
Enter smiling at the door : 
With the giant wrong shall fall 
Many others, great and small, 
That for ages long have held us for their 

prey. 
Men of thought and men of action, clear tne 
way ! 



THE NOBLE REVENGE. 



fjgjipHE coffin was a pi 

SB nn t.hft ton ■ no 1 



am one — a poor miserable pine coffin. No flowers 
on the top ; no lining of white satin for the pale brow ; no smooth 
ribbons about the coarse shroud. The brown hair was laid de- 
cently back, but there was no crimped cap with neat tie beneath 
the chin. The sufferer from cruel poverty smiled in her sleep ; 
she had found bread, rest, and health. 
" I want to see my mother," sobbed a poor little child, as the under- 
taker screwed down the top. 

" You cannot ; get out of the way, boy ; why don't somebody take 
the brat ? " 

" Only let me see her one minute ! " cried the helpless orphan, clutch- 
ing the side of the charity box, and as he gazed upon the rough box, 
agonized tears streamed down the cheeks on which no childish bloom ever 
lingered. Oh ! it was painful to hear him cry the words, " Only once, let 
me see my mother, only once ! " 

Quickly and brutally the heartless monster struck the boy away, so 
that he reeled with the blow. For a moment the boy stood panting with 
grief and rage — his blue eyes distended, his lips sprang apart, fire glittered 
through his eyes as he raised his little arm with a most unchildish laugh, 
and screamed, " When I am a man, I'll be revenged for that ! " 

There was a coffin and a heap of earth between the mother and the 
poor forsaken child — a monument much stronger than granite built in the 
boy's heart the memory of the heartless deed. 



The court-house was crowded to suffocation. 

" Does any one appear as this man's counsel ? " asked the Judge. 



TWO VIEWS. 



625 



There was a silence when he had finished, until, with lips tightly- 
pressed together, a look of strange intelligence blended with a haughty re- 
serve upon his handsome features, a young man stepped forward with a firm 
tread and kindly eye to plead for the erring friendless. He was a stranger, 
but at the first sentence there was silence. The splendor of his genius 
entranced — convinced. 

The man who could not find a friend was acquitted. 

" May God bless you, sir ; I cannot," he said. 

" I want no thanks," replied the stranger. 

"I — I — I believe you are unknown to me." 

" Man, I will refresh your memory. Twenty years ago, this day, you 
struck a broken-hearted little boy away from his dear mother's coffin. I 
was that boy." 

The man turned livid. 

u Have you rescued me then, to take my life ? " 

" "No, I have a sweeter revenge. I have saved the life of a man whose 
brutal conduct has rankled in my breast for the last twenty years. Go 
then, and remember the tears of a friendless child." 

. The man bowed his head in shame, and went from the presence of 
magnanimity as grand to him as it was incomprehensible. 




TWO VIEWS. 




N old farm-house with meadows wide, 
M& And sweet with clover on each side ; 
e ^'~~ a * A bright-eyed boy who looks from out 
i The door with woodbine wreathed about, 
x And wishes his one thought all day : 
J " Oh ! if I could but fly away 
F:om this dull spot the world to see, 
How very happy I should be !" 
40 



Amid the city's constant din, 
A man who round the world has been, 
Who, 'mid the tumult and the throng 
Is thinking, thinking all day long ; 
" Oh could I only tread once more 
The field-path to the farm-house door, 
The old green-meadow could I see, 
E£ow very happy I should be ! " 



626 



THE LULL OF ETERNITY. 



THE LULL OF ETERNITY. 



FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL. 



^|||ji^ANY a voice has echoed the cry for 
" a lull in life," 

Fainting under the noontide, faint- 
ing under the strife. 

Is it the wisest longing ? Is it the 
truest gain ? 

Is not the Master withholding pos- 
sible loss and pain ? 

Perhaps if He sent the lull, we might fail of 
our heart's desire ! 

Swift and sharp the concussion, striking out 
living fire ; 

Nightly and long the friction resulting in 
living glow, 

Heat that is force of the spirit, energy fruit- 
ful in flow. 



What if the blast should falter ? What if 

the fire be stilled ? 
What if the molten metal cool ere the mould 

be filled? 
What if the hands hang down when a work 

is almost done ? 
What if the sword be dropped when a battle 

is almost won ? 

Past many an unseen maelstrom the strong 
wind drives the skiff, 

When a lull might drift it onward to fatal 
swirl or cliff. 

Faithful the guide who spurreth, sternly for- 
bidding repose, 

When treacherous slumber lureth to pause 
amid Alpine snows. 

The lull of Time may be darkness, falling in 

lonely night, 
But the lull of eternity neareth, rising in full, 

calm light : 
The earthly lull may be silence, desolate, 

deep and cold, 
But the heavenly lull shall be music, sweeter 

a thousand fold. 



Here it is " calling apart," and the place may 

be desert indeed, 
Leaving and losing the blessings linked with 

our busy need. 
There ! why should I say it ? hath not the 

heart leaped up, 
Swift and glad, to the contrast, filling the full, 



full 



cup 



Still shall the key-word, ringing, echo the 

same sweet " Come !" 
" Come " with the blessed myriads, safe in the 

Father's home ; 
" Come," for the work is over; " Come," for 

the feast is spread ; 
" Come," for the crown of glory waits for the 

weary head. 

When the rest of faith is ended, and the rest 

of hope is past, 
The rest of love remaineth, Sabbath of life, 

at last. 
No more fleeting hours, hurrying down the 

day, 
But golden stillness of glory, never to pass 

away. 

Time, with its pressure of moments, mocking 
us as they fell, 

With relentless beat of a footstep, hour by 
hour, the knell 

Of a hope or an aspiration, then shall have 
passed away, 

Leaving a grand, calm leisure, leisure of end- 
less day. 

Leisure that cannot be dimmed by the touch 
of time or place ; 

Finding its counterpart measure only in in- 
finite space ; 

Full, and yet ever filling; leisure without 
alloy, 

Eternity's seal on the limitless charter >f 
heavenly joy. 



FORMATION OF ICEBERGS. 



627 



Leisure to fathom the fathomless, leisure to 


Does it seem that the noisy city never will 


seek aud to know 


let thee hear 


Marvels and secrets and glories Eternity 

only can show. 
Leisure of holiest gladness, leisure of holiest 

love, 


The sound of His gentle footsteps, drawing, 
it may be, near ? 

Does it seem that the blinding dazzle of noon- 


Leisure to drink from the fountain of infinite 
peace above. 


day glare and heat 
Is a fiery veil between thy heart and visions 
high and sweet? 


Art thou patiently toiling, waiting the Mas- 


"What though a lull in life may never be 


ter's will, 


made for thee ? 


For a rest that seems never nearer, a hush 


Soon shall a "better thing" be thine, the 


that is far off still ? 


Lull of Eternity. 



FORMATION OF ICF BERGS. 




ELISHA KENT KANE. 



bone. 



-™^T an island known in the Esquimaux tongue as Ekarasak, there lived 
a deputy assistant of the Koyal Greenland Company, a worthy 
man by the name of Grundeitz. It seems that the deep water of 
Omenaks Fiord is resorted to for halibut fishing, an operation which * 
is carried on at the base of the cliffs, with very long lines of whale- 
While Mr. Grundeitz, in a jolly-boat belonging to the company, 
was fishing up the fiord, his attention was called to a large number of 

bearded seals, who were 
sporting about beneath 
one of the glaciers that 
protruded into the bay. 
While approaching for 
the purpose of a shot, 
he heard a strange 
sound, repeated at in- 
tervals like the ticking 
of a clock, and appar- 
ently proceeding from 
the body of the ice. 
At the same time the 
seal, which the moment 
before had been per- 
fectly unconcerned, dis- 
appeared entirely, and his Esquimaux attendants, probably admonished by 




628 



HOME, SWEET HOME. 



previous experience, insisted upon removing the boat to a greater distance. 
It was well they did so ; for, gazing at the white face of the glacier at the 
distance of about a mile, a loud explosive detonation, like the crack of a 
whip vastly exaggerated, reached their ears, and at the same instant, with 
reverberations like near thunder, a great mass fell into the sea, obscuring 
everything in a cloud of foam and mist. 

The undulations which radiated from this great centre of displace- 
ment were fearful. Fortunately for Mr. Grundeitz, floating bodies do not 
change their position very readily under the action of propagated waves, 
and the boat, in consequence, remained outside the grinding fragments ; 
but the commotion was intense, and the rapid succession of huge swells 
such as to make the preservation of the little party almost miraculous. 

The detached mass slowly adjusted itself after some minutes, but it 
was nearly an hour before it attained its equilibrium. It then floated on 
the sea, an iceberg. 




MO ME, SWEET HOME. 




JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. 



|ID pleasures and palaces though we 
may roam, 
Be it ever so humble there's no 

place like home ! 
A charm from the skies seems to 
hallow us here 
Which, seek through the world is ne'er 
met with elsewhere 
Home ! home, sweet home ! 
There's no place like home ! 



An exile from home, splendor dazzles in 

vain ! 
0, give me my lowly thatched cottage 

again ! 
The birds singing gayly that came to my 

call; 
0, give me sweet peace of mind, dearer than 

all! 
Home ! home, sweet home ! 
There's no place like home ! 



OUR LAMBS. 



629 



OUR LAMBS. 






®m LOVED them so, 

|H That when the Elder Shepherd of the fold 

fCame, covered with the storm and pale 
and cold, 
And begged for one of my sweet lambs 
I to hold, 

I I bade Him go. 

He claimed the pet, 
A little fondling thing, that to my breast 
Clung always, either in quiet or unrest — 
I thought of all my lambs I loved him best, 

And yet — and yet — 

I laid him down 
In those white shrouded arms, with bitter 

tears ; 
For some voice told me that, in after years, 
He should know naught of passion, grief or 
fears, 

As I had known. 

And yet again 
That Elder Shepherd came. — My heart grew 

faint. 
He claimed another lamb, with sadder plaint, 
Another! She, who gentle. as a saint, 
Ne'er gave me pain. 

Aghast, I turned away, 
There sat she, lovely as an angel's dream, 
Her golden locks with sunlight all agleam, 
Her holy eyes, with heaven in their beam. 

I knelt to pray. 

" Is it Thy will ? 
My Father, say, must this pet lamb be given ? 
Oh ! Thou hast many such in heaven." 
And a soft voice said: "Nobly hast thou 
striven, 

But — peace, be still." 

Oh how I wept, 
And clasped her to my bosom, with a wild 
And yearning love — my lamb, my pleasant 

child, 
Her, too, I gave. The little angel smiled, 
And slept. 



' Go ! go !" I cried : 
For once again that Shepherd laid his hand 
Upon the noblest of our household band, 
Like a pale spectre, there he took his stand, 
Close to his side. 

And yet how wondrous sweet 
The look with which he heard my passionate 

cry: 
" Touch not my lamb ; for him, oh ! let me 

die !" 
" A little while," he said, with smile and sigh, 
" Again to meet." 

Hopeless I fell ; 
And when I rose, the light had burned so low, 
So faint, I could not see my darling go : 
He had not bidden me farewell, but, oh ! 

I felt farewell. 

More deeply far 
Than if my arms had compassed that slight 

frame, 
Though could I but have heard him call my 

name — 
" Dear Mother !" — but in heaven 'twill be the 
same. 

There burns my star ! 

He will not take 
Another lamb, I thought, for only one 
Of the dear fold is spared to be my sun, 
My guide, my mourner when this life is done, 

My heart would break. 

Oh ! with what thrill 
I heard him enter ; but I did not know 
(For it was dark) that he had robbed me so, 
The idol of my soul — he could not go, 

Heart! be still ! 

Came morning, can I tell 
How this poor frame its sorrowful tenant 

kept? 
For waking, tears were mine ; I, sleeping, 

wept, 
And days, months, years, that weary vigil 
kept. 
Alas ! " Farewell." 



630 



THE CLOCKWORK OF THE SKIES. 



How often it is said ! 


Ay ! it is well, 


I sit and think, and wonder too, some time, 


Well with my lambs, and with their earthly 


How it will seem, when, in that happier clime 


guide, 


It never will ring out like funeral chime 


There, pleasant rivers wander they beside, 


Over the dead. 


Or strike sweet harps upon its silver tide, 




Ay ! it is well. 


No tears ! no tears ! 




Will there a day come that I shall not weep ? 


Through the dreary day 


For I bedew my pillow in my sleep. 


They often come from glorious light to me ; 


Yes, yes ; thank God ! no grief that clime 


I cannot feel their touch, their faces see, 


shall keep, 


Yet my soul whispers, they do come to me. 


No weary years. 


Heaven is not far away. 



THE CLOCKWORK OF THE SKIES. 




EDWARD EVERETT. 



llf E derive from the observations of the heavenly bodies which are 
made at an observatory our only adequate measures of time, and 
our only means of comparing the time of one place with the time 
of another. Our artificial timekeepers, — clocks, watches, and 
f chronometers, — however ingeniously contrived and admirably fa- 

J bricated, are but a transcript, so to say, of the celestial motions, 

and would be of no value without the means of regulating them by obser- 
vation. It is impossible for them, under any circumstances, to escape the 
imperfection of all machinery, the work of human hands ; and the moment 
we remove with our timekeeper east or west, it fails us. It will keep 
home-time alone, like the fond traveler who leaves his heart behind him. 
The artificial instrument is of incalculable utility, but must itself be regu- 
lated by the eternal clockwork of the skies. 

This single consideration is sufficient to show how completely the daily 
business of life is affected and controlled by the heavenly bodies. It is they 
and not our main-springs, our expansion-balances, and our compensation- 
pendulums, which give us our time. To reverse the line of Pope, — 

'Tis with our watches and our judgments : none 
Go just alike, but each believes his own. 

But for all the kindreds and tribes and tongues of men, — each upon their 
own meridian, — from the Arctic pole to the equator, from the equator to 
the Antarctic pole, the eternal sun strikes twelve at noon, and the glorious 
constellations, far up in the everlasting belfries of the skies, chime twelve 



LADY CLARE. 



631 



at midnight — twelve for the pale student over his flickering lamp — twelve 
amid the naming wonders of Orion's belt, if he crosses the meridian at 
that fated hour — twelve by the weary couch of languishing humanity, 
twelve in the star-paved courts of the Empyrean — twelve for the heaving 
tides of the ocean ; twelve for the weary arm of labor ; twelve for the toil- 
ing brain ; twelve for the watching, waking, broken heart ; twelve for the 
meteor which blazes for a moment and expires ; twelve for the comet whose 
period is measured by centuries ; twelve for every substantial, for every 
imaginary thing, which exists in the sense, the intellect, or the fancy, and 
which to speech or thought of man, at the given meridian, refers to the 
lapse of time. 



LADY CLARE. 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 



rife, 

T was the time 
when lilies 
blow, 

And clouds 

are highest 

up in air, 

Lord Ronald 

brought a 

lily-white doe, 

To give his cousin, 
Lady Clare. 

I trow they did not 
part in scorn ; 
Lovers long betroth- 
ed were they ; 
They two will wed the 
morrow morn ; 
God's blessing on the 
day ! 

" He does not love me for my birth, 
Nor for my lands so broad and fair ; 

He loves me for my own true worth, 
And that is well," said Lady Clare. 

In there came old Alice, the nurse, 

Said, "Who was this that went from thee?" 




" It was my cousin," said Lady Clare, 
" To-morrow he weds with me." 

"Oh, God be thank 'd," said Alice the nurse, 
" That all comes round so just and fair, 

Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, 
And you are not the Lady Clare." 

" Are you out of your mind, my nurse, my 
nurse ?" 

Said Lady Clare, " that ye speak so wild?" 
" As God's above," said Alice the nurse, 

" I speak the truth ; you are my child. 

"The old Earl's daughter died at my breast; 

I speak the truth, as I live by bread ! 
I buried her like my own sweet child, 

And put my child in her stead." 

" Falsely, falsely have ye done, 

Oh mother," she said ; " if this be true, 

To keep the best man under the sun 
So many years from his due." 

"Nay, now, my child," said Alice the nurse, 
" But keep the secret for your life, 

And all you have will be Lord Ronald's 
When you are man and wife." 



632 



CRIME SELF-REVEALED. 



" If I'm a beggar born," she said, 
" I will speak out, for I dare not lie. 

Pull off. pull off the brooch of gold, 
And fling the diamond necklace by." 

" Kay, now, my child," said Alice the nurse, 
" But keep the secret all you can." 

She said, " Not so ; but I will know 
If there be any faith in man." 

"Nay, now, what faith?" said Alice the 
nurse, 

" The man will cleave unto his right." 
" And he shall have it," the lady replied, 

" Though I should die to-night," 

"Yet give one kiss to your mother dear! 

Alas, my child, I sinned for thee." 
" Oh, mother, mother, mother," she said, 

" So strange it seems to me. 

" Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear, 

My mother dear, if this be so, 
And lay your hand upon my head, 

And bless me, mother, ere I go." 

She clad herself in a russet gown, 

She was no longer Lady Clare : 
She went by dale, and she went by down, 

With a single rose in her hair. 

The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought 
Leapt up from where she lay, 



Dropt her head in the maiden's hand, 
And follow'd her all the v 

Down slept Lord Ronald from his tower ; 

" Oh, Lady Clare you shame your worth ! 
Why come you drest like a village-maid, 

That are the flower of the earth ?" 

"If I come drest like a village-maid, 

I am but as my fortunes are : 
I am a beggar-born," she said, 

" And not the Lady Clare." 

"Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, 
For I am yours in word and in deed, 
Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, 
" Your riddle is hard to read." 

Oh and proudly stood she up ! 

Her heart within her did not fail ; 
She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes, 

And told him all her nurse's tale. 

He laughed a laugh of merry scorn ; . 

He turn'd and kiss'd her where she stood 
" If you are not the heiress born, 

And I," said he, " the next in blood — 

" If you are not the heiress born, 
And I," said he, " the lawful heir, 

We two will wed to-morrow morn, 
And you shall still be Lady Clare." 



CRIME SELF-REVEALED. 



DANIEL WEBSTER. 




tAINST the prisoner at the bar. as an individual. I cannot have the 
slightest prejudice, I would not do him the smallest injury or in- 
justice. But I do not affect to be indifferent to the discovery and 
the punishment of this deep guilt, I cheerfully share in the- oppro- 
brium, how much soever it may be, which is cast on those who 
feel and manifest an anxious concern that all who had a part in planning^ 
or a hand in executing, this deed of midnight assassination, may be brought 
to answer for their enormous crime at the bar of public justice. 



CRIME SELF-REVEALED. 633 



Gentlemen, this is a most extraordinary case. In "some respects it has 
hardly a precedent anywhere — certainly none in our New England history. 
An aged man, without an enemy in the world, in his own house, and in his 
own bed, is made the victim of a butchery murder, for mere pay. Deep 
sleep had fallen on the destined victim, and on all beneath his roof. A 
healthful old man to whom sleep was sweet — the first sound slumbers of 
the night hold him in their soft but strong embrace. 

The assassin enters through the window, already prepared, into an 
unoccupied apartment ; with noiseless foot he paces the lonely hall, half 
lighted by the moon ; he winds up the ascent of the stairs, and reaches 
the door of the chamber. Of this he moves the lock, by soft and con- 
tinued pressure, till it turns on its hinges ; and he enters and beholds his 
victim before him. The room was uncommonly light. The face of the inno- 
cent sleeper was turned from the murderer ; and the beams of the moon, 
resting on the gray locks of his aged temple, showed him where to strike. 
The fatal blow is given, and the victim passes, without a struggle or a 
motion from the repose of sleep to the repose of death ! It is the assas- 
sin's purpose to make sure work; and he yet plies the dagger, though it 
was obvious that life had been destroyed by the blow of the bludgeon. He 
even raises the aged arm, that he may not fail in his aim at the heart, and 
replaces it again over the wound of the poniard ! To finish the picture, 
he explores the wrist for the pulse ! he feels for it, and ascertains that it 
beats no longer ! It is accomplished ! the deed is done ! He retreats — 
retraces his steps to the window, passes through as he came in, and escapes. 
He has done the murder ; no eye has seen him, no ear has heard him ; the 
secret is his own, and it is safe ! 

Ah ! gentlemen, that was a dreadful mistake. Such a secret can be 
safe nowhere. The whole creation of God has neither nook nor corner, 
where the guilty can bestow it and say it is safe. Not to speak of that 
eye which glances through all disguises, and beholds everything as in the 
splendor of noon, — such secrets of guilt are never safe ; " murder will 
out." True it is that Providence hath so ordained, and doth so govern 
things, that those who break the great law of heaven, by shedding man's 
blood, seldom succeed in avoiding discovery. Especially in a case exciting 
so much attention as this, discovery must and will come, sooner or later. 
A thousand . eyes turn at once to explore every man, every thing, every 
circumstance, connected with the time and place ; a thousand ears catch 
every whisper; a thousand excited minds intently dwell on the scene; 
shedding all their light, and ready to kindle the slightest circumstance into 
a blaze of discovery. Meantime the guilty soul cannot keep its own secret. 



634 



GEMS FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



It is false to itself — or rather it feels an irresistible impulse of conscience 
to be true to itself — it labors under its guilty possession, and knows not 
what to do with it. The human heart was not made for the residence 
of such an inhabitant; it finds itself preyed on by a torment which it 
dares not acknowledge to God or man. A vulture is devouring it, and it 
asks no sympathy or assistance either from heaven or earth. The secret 
which the murderer possesses soon comes to possess him ; and like the evil 
spirits of which we read, it overcomes him, and leads him whithersoever 
it will. He feels it beating at his heart, rising to his throat, and demand- 
ing disclosure. He thinks the whole world sees it in his face, reads it in 
his eyes, and almost hears its workings in the very silence of his thoughts. 
It has become his master ; — it betrays his discretion ; it breaks down his 
courage ; it conquers his prudence. When suspicions from without begin to 
embarrass him, and the net of circumstances to entangle him, the fatal 
secret struggles with still greater violence to burst forth. It must be con- 
fessed ; it will be confessed ; there is no refuge from confession but in 
suicide, and suicide is confession. 



GEMS FROM SHAKSPEARE. 




pHEY well deserve to have, 
H That know the strong'st and surest 
way to get. 

So Judas kiss'd his Master ; 
And cried — all hail! when as he 
meant, — all harm. 

A scar nobly got., or a noble scar, is a 
good livery of honor. 

He that is giddy thinks that the world turns 
round. 

A lady's verily is 
As potent as a lord's. 

What is yours to bestow is not yours to 
reserve. 

Praising what is lost 
Makes the remembrance dear. 

What is the city but the people ? 

Let them obey, that know not how to rule. 

A friend i' the court is better than a penny 
in purse. 



The plants look up to heaven, from whence 
They have their nourishment. 

Things in motion sooner catch the eye, 
Than what not stirs. 

Light boats sail swift, though greater hulks 
draw deep. 

A friend should bear his friend's infirmities. 
Make not your thoughts your prisons. 
There is no time so miserable but a man may 
be true. 

Let us be sacrificers, but no butchers. 

Time is the nurse and breeder of all good. 

Striving to better, oft we mar what's well. 

Receive what cheer you may ; 
The night is long, that never finds the day. 

Wisely and slow: they stumble that run 

fast. 
Nor ask advice of any other thought 
But faith, fulness, and courage. 



GEMS FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



635 



Happy are they that hear their detractions, 
and can pnt them to mending. 

Nor seek for danger 
Where there's no profit. 

Brevity is the soul of wit, 
And tediousness the limbs and outward 
flourishes. 

Pity is the virtue of the law, 

And none but tyrants use it cruelly. 

All difficulties are but easy when they are 
known. 

When sorrows come, they come not single 



But in battalions. 

Fashion wears out more apparel than the 
man. 

Too light winning 
Makes the prize light. 

What great ones do, 
The less will prattle of. 

Men are men ; the best sometimes forget. 

A Roman with a Roman's heart can suffer. 

True valor still a true respect should have. 

Oft the eye mistakes, the brain being trou- 
bled. 

Thoughts are but dreams, till their effects be 
tried. 

The old bees die — the young possess the 
hive. 

Mud not the fountain that gave drink to 
thee. 

Mar not the thing that cannot be amended. 

The hearts of old gave hands : 
But our new heraldry is — hands, not hearts. 

Security 
Is mortal's chiefest enemy. 

Dull not device by coldness and delay. 

Wisely weigh 
Our sorrow with our comfort. 

A custom 
More honor' d in the breach than the observ- 
ance. 



Celerity is never more admired, 
Than by the negligent. 

The weakest kind of fruit 
Drops earliest to the ground. 

'Tis not enough to help the feeble up, 
But to support him after. 

Be to yourself 
As you would to your friend. 

Trust not him, that hath once broken faith. 

There's place and means for every man alive. 

There's not one wise man among twenty that 
will praise himself. 

Small things make base men proud. 

A golden mind stoops not to show of dross. 

How poor an instrument, 
May do a noble deed. 

Things ill got had ever bad success. 

Every cloud engenders not a storm. 

Pleasure and action make the hours seem 
short. 

Direct not him whose way himself will 
choose. 



It is religion that doth make 



kept. 



An honest tale speeds best, being plainly 
told. 

There's beggary in the love that can be 
reckon'd. 

Take all the swift advantage of the hours. 
Where fair is not, praise cannot mend the 
brow. 

'Tis time to fear when tyrants seem to kiss. 

The better part of valour is — discretion. 

Short-lived wits do wither as they grow. 

The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet. 

The words of Mercury are harsh after the 
song of Apollo. 

There's small choice in rotten apples. 

Melancholy is the nurse of frenzy. 

Strong reasons make strong actions. 
Fly pride, says the peacock. 



636 THE GROTTO OF ANTIPAROS. 



THE GROTTO OF ANTIPAROS. 



(p|AVEKN"S, especially those which are situated in limestone, commonly 
™ present the formations called stalactites, from a Greek word signi- 
fying distillation or dropping. The manner of their production 
admits of a very plain and simple explanation. They proceed from 
water trickling through the roofs containing carbonate of lime, 
held in solution by carbonic acid. Upon exposure to the air the 
carbonic acid is gradually disengaged, and a pellicle of lime is deposited. 
The process proceeds, drop after drop, and eventually, descending points 
hanging from the roof are formed, resembling icicles, which are composed 
of concentric rings of transparent pellicles of lime, presenting a very 
peculiar appearance, and, from their connection with each other, produc- 
ing a variety of singular shapes. These descending points are the stalac- 
tites properly so called, from which the stalagmites are to be distinguished, 
which cover the floors of caverns with conical inequalities. These are pro- 
duced by the evaporation of the larger drops which have fallen to the bot- 
tom, and are stalactites rising upwards from the ground. Frequently, in 
the course of ages, the ascending and descending points have been so in- 
creased as to meet together, forming natural columns, a series of which 
bears a striking resemblance to the pillars and arches of Gothic architec- 
ture. 

The amount of this disposition which we find in caverns capable of 
producing it, is, in fact, enormous, and gives us an impressive idea of their 
extraordinary antiquity. The grotto of Antiparos — one of the islands of the 
Grecian Archipelago — is particularly celebrated on account of the size and 
diversity of form of these deposits. It extends nearly a thousand feet 
beneath the surface, in primitive limestone, and is accessible by a narrow 
entrance which is often very steeply inclined, but divided by level landing 
places. After a series of descents, the traveler arrives at the Great Hall, 
as it is called, the sides and roof of which are covered with immense in- 
crustations of calcareous matter. The purity of the surrounding stone, 
and the thickness of the roof in which the unaltered water can deposit all 
impure admixtures, give to its stalactites a beautiful whiteness. Tall 
pillars stand in many places free, near each other, and single groups of 
stalagmites form figures so strongly resembling plants, that Tournefort en- 
deavored to prove from them a vegetable nature in stone. The remark of 
that intelligent traveler is an amusing example of over confidence: — 
"Once again I repeat it, it is impossible this should be done by the 




GROTTO OF ANTIPAROS. 



THE ANGEL'S STORY. 



637 



droppings of water, as is pretended by those who go about to explain 
the formation of congelations in grottoes. It is much more probable that 
these other congelations we speak of, and which hang downwards or rise 
out different ways, were produced by one principle, namely, vegetation." 

The sight of the whole is described, by those who have visited this 
cavern, as highly imposing. In the middle of the Great Hall, there is a 
remarkably fine and large stalagmite, more than twenty feet in diameter, 
and twenty-four feet high, termed the Altar, from the circumstance of the 
Marquis de ISTointel, the ambassador from Louis XIV. to the Sultan, hav- 
ing caused high mass to be celebrated here in the year 1673. The cere- 
mony was attended by five hundred persons ; the place was illuminated by 
a hundred large wax torches ; and four hundred lamps burned in the 
grotto, day and night, for the three days of the Christmas festival. This 
cavern was known to the ancient Greeks, but seems to have been com- 
pletely lost sight of till the seventeenth century. 



THE ANGEL'S STORY. 




ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR. 



THROUGH the blue and froscy heav- 
^ ens, 

Christmas stars were shining bright ; 
Glistening lamps throughout the city 
Almost matched their gleaming' 
light ; 
While the winter snow was lying, 
And the winter winds were sighing, 
Long ago, one Christmas night. 



While, from every tower and steeple, 
Pealing bells were sounding clear, 

Never with such tones of gladness, 
Save when Christmas time is near, 

Many a one that night was merry 
Who had toiled through all the year. 

That night saw old wrongs forgiven : 
Friends, long parted, reconciled ; 

Voices all unused to laughter, 
Mournful eyes that rarely smiled, 

'Trembling hearts that feared the morrow, 
From their anxious thoughts beguiled. 



Rich and poor felt love and blessing 
From the gracious season fall ; 

Joy and plenty in the cottage, 
Peace and feasting in the hall ; 

And the voices of the children 
Ringing clear above it all ! 

Yet one house was dim and darkened ; 

Gloom, and sickness, and despair, 
Dwelling in the gilded chambers, 

Creeping up the marble stair ; 
Even stilled the voice of mourning, 

For a child lay dying there. 

Silken curtains fell around him, 
Velvet carpets hushed the tread ; 

Many costly toys were lying, 
All unheeded, by his bed ; 

And his tangled golden ringlets 
Were on downy pillows spread. 

The skill of all that mighty city 
To save one little life was vain : 



638 



THE ANGEL'S STORY. 



One little thread from being broken, 
One fatal word from being spoken ; 

Nay, his very mother's pain, 
And the mighty love within her, 

Could not give him health again. 

So she knelt there still beside him, 
She alone with strength to smile, 

Promising that he should suffer 
No more in a little while, 

Murmuring tender song and story, 
Weary hours to beguile. 

Suddenly an unseen Presence 

Checked those constant moaning cries, 
Stilled the little heart's quick fluttering, 

Raised those blue and wondering eyes, 
Fixed on some mysterious vision 

With a startled, sweet surprise. 

For a radiant angel hovered, 

Smiling, o'er the little bed ; 
White his raiment, from his shoulders 

Snowy, dove-like pinions spread, 
And a star-like light was shining 

In a glory round his head. 

While, with tender love, the angel, 

Leaning o'er the little nest, 
In his arms the sick child folding, 

Laid him gently on his breast, 
Sobs and wailings told the mother 

That her darling was at rest. 

So, the angel, slowly rising, 

Spread his wings, and through the air, 
Bore the child, and while he held him 

To his heart with loving care, 
Placed a branch of crimson roses, 

Tenderly beside him there. 

While the child, thus clinging, floated 
Toward the mansions of the blest, 

Gazing from his shining guardian, 
To the flowers upon his breast, 

Thus the angel spake, still smiling 
On the little heavenly guest : 

" Know dear little one, that heaven 
Does no earthly thing disdain — 



Man's poor joys find there an echo 

Just as surely as his pain ; 
Love, on earth so feebly striving, 

Lives divine in heaven again ! 

" Once in that great town below us, 

In a poor and narrow street, 
Dwelt a little sickly orphan ; 

Gentle aid, or pity sweet, 
Never in life's rugged pathway 

Guided his poor tottering feet. 

"All the striving, anxious forethought 
That should only come with age, 

Weighed upon his baby spirit, 
Showed him soon life's sternest page. 

Grim want was his nurse, and sorrow 
Was his only heritage. 

" All too weak for childish pastimes, 

Drearily the hours sped ; 
On his hands, so small and trembling, 

Leaning his poor aching head, 
Or through dark and painful hours 

Lying helpless on his bed. 

" Dreaming strange and longing fancies 

Of cool forests far away ; 
And of rosy, happy children, 

Laughing merrily at play, 
Coming home through green lanes, bearing 

Trailing boughs of blooming May. 

" Scarce a glimpse of azure heaven 
Gleamed above that narrow street, 

And the sultry air of summer 

(That you call so warm and sweet) 

Fevered the poor orphan, dwelling 
In that crowded alley's heat. 

" One bright day, with feeble footsteps 
Slowly forth he tried to crawl, 

Through the crowded city's pathways, 
Till he reached the garden wall ; 

Where 'mid princely halls and mansions 
Stood the lordliest of all. 

" There were trees with giant branches, 
Velvet glades where shadows hide ; 



THE ANGEL'S STORY. 



639 



There were sparkling fountains glancing 
Flowers which, in luxuriant pride, 

Ever wafted breaths of perfume 
To the child who stood outside. 

" He against the gate of iron 
Pressed his wan and wistful face, 

Gazing with an awe-struck pleasure 
At the glories of the place : 

Never had his brightest day-dream 
Shone with half such wondrous grace. 

" You were playing in that garden, 
Throwing blossoms in the air, 

Laughing when the petals floated 
Downward on your golden hair ; 

And the fond eyes watching o'er you, 

And the splendor spread before you, 
Told a house's hope was there. 

■ When your servants, tired of seeing 

Such a face of want and woe, 
Turning to the ragged orphan, 

Gave him coin and bade him go, 
Down his cheeks so thin and wasted 

Bitter tears began to flow. 

But that look of childish sorrow 

On your tender child-heart fell, 
And you plucked the reddest roses 

From the tree you loved so well, 
Passed them through the stern, cold gra- 
ting, 

Gently bidding him ' Farewell !' 

Dazzled by the fragrant treasure 
And the gentle voice he heard, 

In the poor forlorn boy's spirit 
Joy, the sleeping seraph, stirred ; 

In his hand he took the flowers, 
In his heart the loving word. 

So he crept to his poor garret : 

Poor no more, but rich and bright, 
For the holy dreams of childhood — 

Love, and Rest, and Hope, and Light— 
Floated round the orphan's pillow, 

Through the starry summer night. 

*• Day dawned, yet the vision lasted — 
All too weak to rise he lay ; 



Did he dream that none spake harshly — 
All were strangely kind that day ? 

Surely, then, his treasured roses 
Must have charmed all ills away. 

" And he smiled, though they were fading 
One by one their leaves were, shed ; 

' Such bright things could never perish ; 
They would bloom again,' he said. 

"When the next day's sun had risen 
Child and flowers both were dead. 




" Know, dear little one ! our Father 
Will no gentle deed disdain ; 

Love on the cold earth beginning 
Lives divine in heaven again, 

While the angel hearts that beat there 
Still all tender thoughts retain." 

So the angel ceased, and gently 

O'er his little burden leant ; 
While the child gazed from the shining, 

Loving eyes that o'er him bent, 
To the blooming roses by him, 

Wondering what their mystery meant* 

Thus the radiant angel answered, 
And with tender meaning smiled : 

" Ere your childlike, loving spirit 
Sin and the hard world defiled, 

God has given me leave to seek you — 
I was once that little child !" 



In the churchyard of that city 
Rose a tomb of marble rare, 

Decked, as soon as spring awakened, 
With her buds and blossoms fair — 

And a humble grave beside it — 
None knew who rested there. 



640 



GOLDEN GRAINS. 



GOLDEN GRAINS. 



JAMES A. GARFIELD. 



SELECTED FEOM VARIOUS ORATIONS. 



|m| FEEL a profounder reverence for a 

Mw Boy than for a Man. I never meet 

jfSf a ragged Boy in the street without 

mm feeling that I may owe him a salute, 
$ for I know not what possibilities 

J may be buttoned up under his coat. 

Poverty is uncomfortable, as I can testify ; 
but nine times out of ten the best thing 
that can happen to a young man is to 
be tossed overboard and compelled to 
sink or swim for himself. In all my 
acquaintance I never knew a man to be 
drowned who was worth the saving. 

There are times in the history of men and 
nations, when they stand so near the 
veil that separates Mortals and Immor- 
tals, Time from Eternity, and Men from 
their God, that they can almost hear 
their breathings and feel the pulsations 
of the heart of the Infinite. 

Growth is better than Permanence, and per- 
manent growth is better than all. 

It is no honor or profit merely to appear in 
the arena. The Wreath is for those who 
contend. 

There is a fellowship among the Virtues by 
which one great, generous passion stimu- 
lates another. 

The privilege of being a Young Man is a 
great privilege, and the privilege of 
growing up to be an independent Man 
in middle life is a greater. 

Many books we can read in a railroad car 
and feel a harmony between the rushing 
of the train and the haste of the Author. 

If the power to do hard work is not Talent, 
it is the best possible substitute for it. 

Occasion may be the bugle-call that summons 
an army to battle, but the blast of a 
bugle can never make Soldiers or win 
Victories. 

Things don't turn up in this World until 
somebody turns them up. 



If there be one thing upon this earth that 
mankind love and admire better than 
another, it is a brave Man — it is a man 
who dares look the Devil in the face 
and tell him he is a Devil. 

True art is but the anti-type of Nature — 
the embodiment of discovered Beauty in 
utility. 

Every character is the joint product of Nature 
and Nurture. 

Not a man of Iron, but of Live Oak. 

Power exhibits itself under two distinct 
forms — strength and force — each pos- 
sessing peculiar qualities and each perfect 
in its own sphere. Strength is typified 
by the Oak, the Rock, the Mountain. 
Force embodies itself in the Cataract, 
the Tempest, the Thunderbolt. 

As a giant Tree absorbs all the elements of 
growth within its reach and leaves only 
a sickly Vegetation in its shadow, so do 
towering great Men absorb all the 
strength and glory of their surroundings 
and leave a dearth of Greatness for a 
whole generation. 

It has been fortunate that most of our great- 
est Men have left no descendants to 
shine in the borrowed lustre of a great 
name. 

In order to have any success in life, or any 
worthy success, you must resolve to 
carry into your work a fullness ot 
Knowledge — not merely a Sufficiency, 
but more than a Sufficiency. 

Be fit for more than the thing you are now 
doing. 

Young Men talk of trusting to the Spur of 
the Occasion. That trust is vain. Occa- 
sions cannot make Spurs. If you expect 
to wear Spurs you must win them. It 
you wish to use them you must buckle 
them to your own heels before you go 
into the Fight. 



FOE CHARLIE'S SAKE. 



641 



That man will be a benefactor of his race 
who shall teach us how to manage 
rightly the first years of a Child's educa- 
tion. 

Great Ideas travel slowly and for a time 
noiselessly, as the Gods whose Feet were 
shod with wool. 

He who would understand the real Spirit of 
Literature should not select authors of 
any one period alone, but rather go to 
the fountain-head, and trace the little 
fill as it courses along down the ages, 
"broadening and deepening into the great 
ocean of Thought which the Men of the 
present are exploring. 

Eternity alone will reveal to the human race 
its debt of gratitude to the peerless and 
immortal name of Washington. 

The scientific spirit has cast out the Demons 
and presented us with Nature, clothed 
in her right mind and living under the 
reign of law. It has given us for the 
sorceries of the Alchemist, the beautiful 
laws of Chemistry ; for the dreams of 
the Astrologer, the sublime truths of 
astronomy : for the wild visions of Cos- 
mogony, the monumental records of 
geology ; for the anarchy of Diabolism, 
the laws of God. 

We no longer attribute the untimely death 
of infants to the sin of Adam, but to 
tad nursing and ignorance. 



Imagine if you can what would happen if 
to-morrow morning the railway locomo- 
tive and its corollary, the telegraph, 
were blotted from the earth. To what 
humble proportions Mankind would be 
compelled to scale down the great enter- 
prizes they are now pushing forward 
with such ease ! 

Heroes did not make our liberties, they but 
reflected and illustrated them. 

The Life and light of a nation are insepa- 
rable. 

We confront the dangers of Suffrage by the 
blessings of universal education. 

There is no horizontal Stratification of society 
in this country like the rocks in the 
earth, that hold one class down below 
forevermore, and let another come to 
the surface to stay there forever. Our 
Stratification is like the ocean, where 
every individual drop is free to move, 
and where from the sternest depths of 
the mighty deep any drop may come up 
to glitter on the highest wave that rolls. 

There is deep down in the -hearts of the 
American people a strong and abiding 
love of our Country which no surface 
storms of passion can ever shake. 

Our National safety demands that the foun- 
tains of political power shall be made 
pure by Intelligence and kept pure by 
Vigilance. 



FOE CHARLIE'S SAKE. 



JOHN W. PALMER. 



gSHFjEHE night is late, the house is still ; 
||M The angels of the hour fulfil 
*2ggvL Their tender ministries, and move 
^j From couch to couch in cares of love. 
They drop into thy dreams, sweet 
wife, 

The happiest smile of Charlie's life, 
And lay on baby's lips a kiss, 
Fresh from his angel-brother's bliss ; 
And, as they pass, they seem to make 
41 



A strange, dim hymn, " For Charlie's 



My listening heart takes up the strain, 
And gives it to the night again, 
Fitted with words of lowly praise, 
And patience learned of mournful days 
And memories of the dead child's ways. 

His will be done, His will be done ! 
Who gave and took away my son, 



642 



LIFE. 



In " the far land " to shine and sing 
Before the Beautiful, the King, 
Who every day doth Christmas make, 
All starred and "belled for Charlie's sake. 

For Charlie's sake I will arise ; 
I will anoint me where he lies, 
And change my raiment, and go in 
To the Lord's house, and leave my sin 



Without, and seat me at his board, 
Eat, and be glad, and praise the Lord. 

For wherefore should I fast and weep, 

And sullen moods of mourning keep ? 

I cannot bring him back, nor he, 

For any calling, come to me. 

The bond the angel Death did sign, 

God sealed — for Charlie's sake and mine. 



THE BRIDE. 



SIR JOHN SUCKLING. 




I|HE maid, and thereby hangs a tale, 
I For such a maid no Whitsun-ale 
Could ever yet produce : 
No grape that's kindly ripe could be 
So round, so plump, so soft as she, 
Nor half so full of juice. 



Her finger was so small, the ring 

Would not stay on which they did bring, — 

It was too wide a peck ; 
And, to say truth, — for out it must, — 
It looked like the great collar — just — 

About our young colt's neck. 

Her feet, beneath her petticoat, 
Like little mice stole in and out, 

As if they feared the light ; 
But 0, she dances such a way ! 
No sun upon an Easter-day 

Is half so fine a sight. 



Her cheeks so rare a white was on, 
No daisy makes comparison ; 

Who sees them is undone ; 
For streaks of red were mingled there, 
Such as are on a Cath'rine pear, 

The side that's next the sun. 

Her lips were red ; and one was thin, 
Compared to that was next her chin. 

Some bee had stung it newly ; 
But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face, 
I durst no more upon them gaze, 

Than on the sun in July. 

Her mouth so small, when she does speak, 
Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break, 

That they might passage get ; 
But she so handled still the matter, 
They came as good as ours, or better, 

And are not spent a whit. 



LIFE. 




HENRY KING. 



IKE to the falling of a star, 
Or as the flights of eagles are, 
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue, 
Or silver drops of morning dew, 
Or like a wind that chafes the flood. 
Or bubbles which on water stood,— 



E'en such is man, whose borrowed light 
Is straight called in, and paid to-night, 
The wind blows out, the bubble dies, 
The spring entombed in autumn lies, 
The dew dries up, the star is shot, 
The flight is past, — and man forgot ! 



HABITS OF TROUT. 



643 



HABITS OF TROUT. 



WILLIAM C. PEIME. 



ffl§T is noteworthy, and has doubtless often attracted the attention 
IIP of anglers, that different books give 
Jk totally different instructions and infor- 

$ mation about the same fish. This is 

• easily explained. Most of the writers 
on angling have written from experience ob- 
tained in certain waters. One who has taken 
trout for a score of years in the St. Eegis 
waters forms his opinion of these fish from 
their habits in those regions. But a St. Eegis 
trout is no more like a Welakennebacook trout 
in his habits than a Boston gentleman is 
to a New Yorker. Who would think of de- 
scribing the habits and customs of mankind 
from a knowledge of the Englishman? Yet 
we have abundance of book-lore on the habits 
of fish, founded on acquaintance with the fish 
in one or another locality. To say truth, until 
one has studied the habits of trout in all the 
waters of the world, it is unsafe for him to ven- 
ture any general account of those habits. 

Take the simplest illustration. If you are 
on the lower St. Eegis, and seek large trout, 
rise before the sun, and cast for the half hour 
preceding and the half hour following sunrise. 
You will find the fish plenty and voracious, 
striking with vigor, and evidently on the feed. 
But go to Profile Lake (that gem of all the 
world of waters), wherein I have taken many 
thousand trout, and you will scarcely ever have 
a rise in the morning. In the one lake the fish 
are in the habit of feeding at day-dawn. In the 
other no trout breakfasts till nine o'clock, unless, 
like the departing guests of the neighboring 
hotel, business or pleasure lead him to be up for 
once at an early hour. 



644 



NO MORE SEA.' 



So, too, you may cast on Profile Lake at noon in the sunshine, and as 
in most waters, though the trout are abundant, they will not be tempted 
to rise. But in Echo Lake, only a half-mile distant, where trout are 
scarce, I have killed many fish of two and three pounds' weight, and nearly 
all between eleven and one in bright, sunshiny weather. In fact, when 
they rise at all in Echo Lake, it is almost invariably at that hour, and 
very seldom at any other. Men have their hours of eating, settled into 
what we call habits. The Bostonian dines at one hour, the New Yorker 
at another. One should not attempt to describe the eating habits of man 
in general from either class, or from both. In many respects the habits of 
fish are formed, as are the habits of men, by the force of circumstances, or 
by the influence of the imitative propensity. They do some things only 
because they have seen other fish do so. Instinct leads them to some 
habits, education to others. 




"NO MORE SEA. 



WILLIAM H. HENDERSON. 

Ifl. LONELY, exiled one ! Shall we not then beside 

Upon the Patmos shore I see thee g ome fri^a or brother, count from pebbly 

stand : beach 

Thou dreamest gravely of thine own I Tlie wn ite-winged ships as far as eye can 

reach 




dear land, 
Far by the rising sun. 



Thinking of Galilee, 
And the hoarse waves that part thee from its 

shore, 
Not strange it seems to hear thee murmuring 
o'er 

Thy song of " No More Sea." 



On the horizon wide ? 



Alas ! and no more sea ? 
No grey clond-shadows flickering o'er the 

deep? 
No cnrling breakers by the rocky steep 
Or beachy shore ? Ah, me! 



ECHOES. 



645 



No more in foamy spray 
Shall we with merry jest and full- voiced 


Its pure, chaste lips shall never cease to kisa 
Its sister earth so dear. 


laughter 
Delight ourselves, and breast the surges after 
The dust and heat of day ? 


A darker, sadder sea 
Spreads its drear waste before the prophet's 

eye — 
A sea of sin across which floats the sigh 


Shall there be no more shells ? 


Nor golden sand? Nor crimson sea-weed 


Of fallen humanity. 


shine — 
Nor pearls, nor coral that beneath the brine 
Adorn the ocean cells ? 

On balmy summer day 
Shall we not float in dainty skiff along, 


And surges of dark thought 
And angry passion loom upon its face, 
Telling the ruin of a shipwrecked race. 

In countless centuries wrought. 

This is the great Red Sea, 


And suit the dipping oar to choral song, 
Upon some sheltered bay ? 


Whose waves shall yet at God's own voice 
roll back, 




Yes, apostolic seer; 
Not of the watery brine thou tellest 
this; 



That through the pathway His redeemed 
may walk, 
Safe, fearless, joyful, free. 



ECHOES. 




THOMAS MOORE. 



OW sweet the answer Echo makes 
To Music at night 
When, roused by lute or horn, she 

wakes, 
And far away o'er lawns and lakes 
Goes answering light! 



Yet Love hath echoes truer far 

And far more sweet 
Than e'er, beneath the moonlight's star, 
Of horn or lute or soft guitar 

The songs repeat. 



646 SOFT SAWDER AND HUMAN NATUR. 



SOFT SA WDER AND HUMAN NATUR. 



THOMAS C. HALIBURTON. 



li®N the course of a journey which Mr. Slick performs in company with 
wit the reporter of his humors, the latter asks him how, in a country so 
JL poor as Nova Scotia he contrives to sell so many clocks. " Mr. 
4 Slick paused," continues the author, "as if considering the propriety 
f of answering the question, and looking me in the face, said, in a con- 
I fidential tone : ' Why, I don't care if I do tell you, for the market is 
glutted, and I shall quit this circuit. It is done by a knowledge of soft 
sawder and human natur. But here; — I have just one left. Neighbor 
Steel's wife asked to have the refusal of it, but I guess I won't sell it. I 
had but two of them, this one and the feller of it, that I sold Governor 
Lincoln. General Green, secretary of state for Maine, said he'd give me 
fifty dollars for this here one — it has composition wheels and patent axles; 
it is a beautiful article — a real first chop — no mistake, genuine superfine ; 
but I guess I'll take it back ; and, besides, Squire Hawk might think it 
hard that I did not give him the offer.' 

"'Dear me,' said Mrs. Flint, 'I should like to see it; where is it?" 
* It is in a chest of mine over the way, at Tom Tape's store ; I guess he 
can ship it on to Eastport.' 'That's a good man,' said Mrs. Flint, 'jist 
let's look at it.' Mr. Slick, willing to oblige, yielded to these entreaties, 
and soon produced the clock — a gaudy, highly varnished, trumpery-look- 
ing affair. He placed it on the chimney-piece, where its beauties were 
pointed out and duly appreciated by Mrs. Flint, whose admiration was about 
ending in a proposal, when Mr. Flint returned from giving his directions 
about the care of the horses. The deacon praised the clock; he, too, 
thought it a handsome one ; but the deacon was a prudent man : he had 
a watch, he was sorry, but he had no occasion for a clock. 1 1 guess you're 
in the wrong furrow this time, deacon; it ain't for sale,' said Mr. Slick; 
' and if it was, I reckon neighbor Steele's wife would have it, for she gives 
me no peace about it.' Mrs. Flint said that Mr. Steele had enough to do, 
poor man, to pay his interest, without buying clocks for his wife. ' It's 
no consarn of mine,' said Mr. Slick, ' as long as he pays me, what he has 
to do ; but I guess I don't want to sell it ; and, beside, it comes too high ; 
that clock can't be made at Khode Island under forty dollars. 

" ' Why, it an't possible ! ' said the Clockmaker, in apparent surprise, 
looking at his watch, ' why, as I'm alive, it is four o'clock, and if I haven't 
been two hours here — how on airth shall I reach Eiver Philip to-night ? 
I'll tell you what, Mrs. Flint ; I'll leave the clock in your care till I return 



NIAGARA. 



647 



on my way to the States — I'll set it agoing, and put it to the right time.' 
As soon as this operation was performed, he delivered the key to the deacon 
with a sort of serio-comic injunction to wind up the clock every Saturday 
night, which Mrs. Flint said she would take care should be done, and 
promised to remind her husband of it, in case he should chance to for- 
get it. 

" ' That,' said the Clockmaker, as soon as we were mounted, ' that I 
call human natur ! Now, that clock is sold for forty dollars — it cost me 
six dollars and fifty cents. Mrs. Flint will never let Mrs. Steele have the 
refusal — nor will the deacon learn until I call for the clock, that having 
once indulged in the use of a superfluity, it is difficult to give it up. We 
can do without any article of luxury we have never had, but when once 
obtained, it is not in human natur to surrender it voluntarily. Of fifteen 
thousand sold by myself and partners in this province, twelve thousand 
were left in this manner, only ten clocks were ever returned — when we 
called for them, they invariably bought them. We trust to soft sawder 
to get them into the house, and to human natur that they never come out 
of it." 



NIAGARA. 



LYDIA HUNTLY SIGOURNEY. 




JLOW on forever, in thy glorious robe 
Of terror and of beauty. Yes, flow 

on, 
Unfathom'd and resistless. God hath 

set 
His rainbow on thy forehead, and 

the cloud 
Mantled around thy feet. — And he 
doth give 
Thy voice of thunder power to speak of him 
Eternally, — bidding the lip of man 
Keep silence, and upon thy rocky altar pour 
Incense of awe-struck praise. 

And who can dare 
To lift the insect trump of earthly hope, 
Or love, or sorrow, 'mid the peal sublime 
Of thy tremendous hymn ? — Even Ocean 

shrinks 
Back from thy brotherhood, and his wild 

waves 
Retire abash'd. — For he doth sometimes seem 



To sleep like a spent laborer, and recall 
His wearied billows from their vexing play, 
And lull them to a cradle calm : but thou, 
With everlasting, undecaying tide, 
Dost rest not night or day. 

The morning stars, 
When first they sang o'er young creation's 

birth, 
Heard thy deep anthem, — and those wreck- 
ing fires 
That wait the archangel's signal to dissolve 
The solid earth, shall find Jehovah's name 
Graven, as with a thousand diamond spears, 
On thine unfathom'd page. — Each leafy bough 
That lifts itself within thy proud domain, 
Doth gather greenness from thy living spray, 
And tremble at the baptism. — Lo ! yon birds 
Do venture boldly near, bathing their wing 
Amid thy foam and mist. — 'Tis meet for thorn 
To touch thy garment's hem, — or lightly stir 
The snowy leaflets of thy vapor wreath, — 



648 



FINGAL'S CAVE. 



Who sport unharm'd upon the fleecy cloud, 
And listen at the echoing gai,e of heaven, 
Without reproof. — But as for us, — it seems 
Scarce lawful with our broken tones to speak 
Familiarly of thee. — Methinks, to tint 
Thy glorious features with our pencil's point, 
Or woo thee to the tablet of a song, 
Were profanation. 



Thou dost make the soul 
A wondering witness of thy majesty ; 
And while it rushes with delirious joy 
To tread thy vestibule, dost chain its step, 
And check its rapture with the humbling view 
Of its own nothingness, bidding it stand 
In the dread presence of the Invisible 
As if to answer to its God through thee. 



FINGAL'S CA VK 



gM&N" the volcanic rocks, cavern formations are very common, and one of 

H§ the most splendid examples in the world occurs in the basalt, a rock 

JL of comparatively modern igneous origin. This is the well-known 

4 cave of Fingal, in the island of Staffa, a small island on the western 

f coast of Scotland, composed entirely of amorphous and pillared basalt. 

1 The name of the island is derived from its singular structure, Staffa, 

signifying, in the Norwegian language, a people who were early on the 

coast, a staff, and figuratively, a column. The basaltic columns have in 

various places yielded to the action of the waves, which have scooped out 

caves of the most picturesque description, the chief of which are the Boat 

cave, the Cormorant cave, so called from the number of these birds visiting 

the spot, and the great cave of Fingal. 

It is remarkable that this grand natural object should have remained 
comparatively unknown, until Sir Joseph Banks had his attention acci- 
dentally directed to it, and may be said to have discovered it to the inhab- 
itants of South Britain. This great cave consists of a lava-like mass at 
the base, and of two ranges of basaltic columns resting upon it, which 
present to the eye an appearance of regularity almost architectural, and 
supporting an irregular ceiling of rock. According to the measurements 
of Sir Joseph Banks, the cave from the rock without is three hundred 
and seventy-one feet six inches ; the breadth at the mouth, fifty-three feet 
seven inches ; the height of the arch at the mouth, one hundred and seven- 
teen feet six inches ; depth of water at the mouth, eighteen feet ; and at 
the bottom of the cave, nine feet. The echo of the waves which wash * 
into the cavern has originated its Celtic name, Llaimbh-bim, the Cave of 
Music. Maculloch remarks : " If too much admiration has been lavished 
on it by some, and if, in consequence, more recent visitors have left it with 
disappointment, it must be recollected, that all descriptions are but pictures 
of the feelings of the narrator ; it is, moreover, as unreasonable to expect 



FINGAL'S CAVE. 



649 



that the same objects should produce corresponding effects on all minds, 
on the enlightened and on the vulgar, as that every individual should 
alike be sensible to the merits of Phidias and Eaphael, of Sophocles and 
of Shakespeare. 

But if this cave were even destitute of that order and symmetry, that 
richness arising from multiplicity of parts combined with greatness of 







dimension and simplicity of style, which it possesses , still the prolonged 
length, the twilight gloom half concealing the playful and varying effects 
of reflected light, the echo of the measured surge as it rises and falls, the 
transparent green of the water, and the profound and fairy solitude of the 
whole scene, could not fail strongly to impress a mind gifted with any sense 
of beauty in art or in nature, and it will be compelled to own it is not 
without cause that celebrity has been conferred on tfie Cave of Fingal." 



i 



650 



THE CELESTIAL COUNTRY. 



THE CELESTIAL COUNTRY. 



BEENAED DE MOELAIX, A. D., 1145. 



^OR thee, dear, dear Country ! 

Mine eyes their vigils keep ; 
For very love beholding 

Thy happiness, they weep. 
The mention of thy glory, 

Is unction to the breast, 
And medicine in sickness, 

And love, and life, and rest. 

O one, only Mansion ! 

Paradise of Joy ! 
Where tears are ever banished, 

And smiles have no alloy, 
Beside thy living waters, 

All plants are great and small, 
The cedar of the forest, 

The hyssop of the wall ; 
With jaspers glow thy bulwarks, 

Thy streets with emeralds blaze, 
The sardius and topaz 

Unite in thee their rays ; 
Thine ageless walls are bonded' 

With amethyst unpriced ; 
The saints build up its fabric, 

And the corner-stone is Christ. 



The Cross is all thy splendor, 

The Crucified thy praise ; 
His laud and benediction 

Thy ransomed people raise : 
; Jesus, the Gem of Beauty, 

True God and Man," they sing, 
1 The never-failing Garden, 

The ever- golden Ring ; 
The Boor, the Pledge, the Husband, 

The Guardian of His Court ; 
The Bay-star of Salvation, 

The Porter and the Port J" 

Thou hast no shore, fair ocean ! 

Thou hast no time, bright day ! 
Bear fountain of refreshment 

To pilgrims far away ! 
Upon the Rock of Ages, 

They raise the holy tower ; 



Thine is the victor's laurel, 
And thine the golden dower ! 

Thou feel'st in mystic rapture, 

Bride that know'st no guile, 
The Prince's sweetest kisses, 

The Prince's loveliest smile ; 
Unfading lilies, bracelets 

Of living pearl, thine own ; 
The Lamb is ever near thee, 

The Bridegroom thine alone. 
The Crown is He to guerdon, 

The Buckler to protect, 
And He, Himself the Mansion, 

And He the Architect. 

The only art thou need'st — 

Thanksgiving for thy lot : 
The only joy thou seek'st — 

The Life where Beath is not. 
And all thine endless leisure, 

In sweetest accents sings 
The ill that was thy merit, 

The wealth that is thy King's t 

Jerusalem the golden, 

With milk and honey blest, 
Beneath thy contemplation 

Sink heart and voice oppressed. 
I know not, I know not, 

What social joys are there ! 
What radiancy of glory, 

What light beyond compare ! 

And when I fain would sing them, 
My spirit fails and faints ; 

And vainly would it image 
The assembly of the Saints. 

They stand, those halls of Zion, 

All jubilant with song, 
And bright with many an angel, 

And all the martyr throng ; 
The Prince is ever in them, 

The daylight is serene ; 
The pastures of the Blessed 

Are decked in glorious sheen. 



THE CELESTIAL COUNTRY. 



651 



There is the Throne of David, 

And there, from care released, 
The song of them that triumph, 

The shout of them that feast ; 
And they who, with their Leader, 

Have conquered in the fight, 
For ever and for ever 

Are clad in robes of white ! 

holy, placid harp-notes 

Of that eternal hymn ! 
sacred, sweet reflection, 

And peace of Seraphim ! 
thirst, forever ardent, 

Yet evermore content ! 
true, peculiar vision 

Of God omnipotent! 
Ye know the many mansions 

For many a glorious name, 
And divers retributions 

That divers merits claim ; 
For midst the constellations 

That deck our earthly sky, 
This star than that is brighter — 

And so it is on high. 

Jerusalem the glorious ! 

The glory of the elect ! 
dear and future vision 

That eager hearts expect ! 
Even now by faith I see thee, 

Even here thy walls discern ; 
To thee my thoughts are kindled, 

And strive, and pant, and yearn. 

none can tell thy bulwarks, 

How glorious they rise ! 
none can tell thy capitals 

Of beautiful device ! 
Thy loveliness oppresses 

All human thought and heart ; 
And none, peace, Zion, 

Can iing thee as thou art ! 

New mansion of new people, 
Whom God's own love and light 

Promote, increase, make holy, 
Identify, unite ! 

Thou City of the Angels ! 
Thou City of the Lord ! 



"Whose everlasting music 
Is the glorious decachord ! 

And there the band of Prophets 

United praise ascribes, 
And there the twelve-fold chorus 

Of Israel's ransomed tribes, 
The lily-beds of virgins, 

The roses' martyr glow, 
The cohort of the Fathers 

Who kept the Faith below, 

And there the Sole-begotten 

Is Lord in regal state — 
He, Judah's mystic Lion, 

He, Lamb Immaculate. 
fields that know no sorrow ! 

state that fears no strife ! 

princely bowers ! land of flowers \ 

realm and home of Life ! 

Jerusalem, exulting 
On that securest shore, 

1 hope thee, wish thee, sing thee, 
And love thee ever more ! 

I ask not for my merit, 

1 seek not to deny 
My merit is destruction, 

A child of wrath am I ; 
But yet with Faith I venture, 

And Hope upon my way ; 
For those perennial guerdons 

I labor night and day. 

The best and dearest Father, 

Who made me and who saved, 
Bore with me in defilement, 

And from defilement saved, 
When in His strength I struggle, 

For very joy I leap, 
When in my sin I totter, 

I weep, or try to weep : 
But grace, sweet grace celestial, 

Shall all its love display, 
And David's Royal fountain 

Purge every sin away. 

mine, my golden Zion ! 

lovelier far than gold, 
With laurel-girt battalions, 

And safe victorious fold ! 



652 



ARCTIC LIFE. 



sweet and blessed Country, 


Exult, dust and ashes ! 


Shall I ever see thy face ? 


The Lord shall be thy part ; 


sweet and blessed Country, 


His only, His forever, 


Shall I ever win thy grace ? 


Thou shalt be, and thou art ! 


I have the hope within me 


Exult, dust and ashes ! 


To comfort and to bless ! 


The Lord shall be thy part ; 


Shall I ever win the prize itself ? 


His only, His for ever, 


tell me, tell me, Yes ! 


Thou shalt be, and thou art ! 




ARCTIC LIFE. 



ELISHA KENT KANE. 




||i|OW do we spend the day when it is not term- day, or rather the 
■*™z twenty-four hours? for it is either all day here, or all night, or a 
twilight mixture of both. How do we spend the twenty-four 
hours ? 

At six in the morning, McG-ary is called, with all hands who 
have slept in. The decks are cleaned, the ice-hole opened, the refreshing 
beef-nets examined, the ice-tables measured, and things aboard put to 
rights. At half-past seven, all hands rise, wash on deck, open the doors 
for ventilation, and come below for breakfast. We are short of fuel, and 
therefore cook in the cabin. Our breakfast, for all fare alike, is hard tack, 
pork, stewed apples frozen like molasses-candy, tea and coffee, with a deli- 
cate portion of raw potato. After breakfast, the smokers take their pipe 
till nine : then all hands turn to, idlers to idle, and workers to work ; 
Ohlsen to his bench ; Brooks to his " preparations " in canvass ; McGrary 




ARCTIC LIFE 



ARCTIC LIFE. 653 



to play tailor ; Whipple to make shoes ; Bonsall to tinker ; Baker to skin 
birds, — and the rest to the "office ! " Take a look into the Arctic Bureau ! 
One table, one salt-pork lamp with rusty chlorinated name, three stools, 
and as many waxen-faced men with their legs drawn up under them, the 
deck at zero being too cold for the feet. Each has his department : Kane is 
writing, sketching, and projecting maps ; Hayes copying logs and meteoro- 
logical ; Sontag reducing his work at Fern Rock. A fourth, as one of 
the working members of the hive, has long been defunct : you will find him 
in bed, or studying "Littell's Living Age." At twelve, a business round 
of inspection, and orders enough to fill up the day with work. Next, the 
drill of the Esquimaux dogs, — my own peculiar recreation, — a dog-trot, 
especially refreshing to legs that creak with every kick, and rheumatic 
shoulders that chronicle every descent of the whip. And so we get on to 
dinner-time ; the occasion of another gathering, which misses the tea and 
coffee of breakfast, but rejoices in pickled cabbage and dried peaches 
instead. 

At dinner as at breakfast the raw potato comes in, our hygienic lux- 
ury. Like doctor stuff generally, it is not as appetizing as desirable. 
Grating it down nicely, leaving out the ugly red spots liberally, and adding 
the utmost oil as a lubricant, it is as much as I can do to persuade the 
mess to shut their eyes and bolt it, like Mrs. Squeers' molasses and brim- 
stone at Dotkeboys' Hall. Two absolutely refuse to taste it. I tell them of 
the Silesians using its leaves as a spinach, of the whalers in the South Seas 
getting drunk on the molasses which had preserved the large potatoes of 
the Azores, — I point to this gum, so fungoid and angry the day before yes- 
terday, and so flat and amiable to-day, — all by a potato poultice : my elo- 
quence is wasted : they persevered in rejecting the admirable compound. 

Sleep, exercise, amusement, and work at will, carry on the day till our 
six o'clock supper, a meal something like breakfast, and something like 
dinner, only a little more scant, and the officers come in with the reports 
of the day. Doctor Hayes shows me the log, I sign it; Sontag the weather, 
I sign the weather ; Mr. Bonsall the tides and thermometers. Thereupon 
comes in mine ancient, Brooks ; and I enter in his journal No. 3 all the 
work done under his charge, and discuss his labors for the morrow. 

McG-ary comes next, with the cleaning-up arrangements, inside, out- 
side, and on decks ; and Mr. Wilson follows with ice measurements. And 
last of all comes my own record of the day gone by ; every line, as I look 
back upon its pages, giving evidence of a weakened body and harassed 
mind. We have cards sometimes, and chess sometimes, — and a few maga- 
zines, Mr. Littell's thoughtful present, to cheer away the evening. 



654: 



THE CHANGELING. 



THE CHANGELING. 



JOHN G. WHITTIER. 



jjOR the fairest maid in Hampton 
They needed not to search, 
Who saw young Anna Favor 
Come walking into church, — 

Or bringing from the meadows, 
At set of harvest-day, 

The frolic of the blackbirds, 
The sweetness of the hay. 



She'll come when she hears it crying, 
In the shape of an owl or bat, 

And she'll bring us our darling Anna 
In place of her screeching brat." 

Then the goodman, Ezra Dalton, 
Laid his hand upon her head : 

" Thy sorrow is great, woman ! 
I sorrow with thee," he said. 




Now the weariest of all mothers, 
The saddest two-years bride, 

She scowls in the face of her husband, 
And spurns her child aside. 

" Rake out the red coals, goodman, 
For there the child shall lie, 

Till the black witch comes to fetch her, 
And both up chimney fly. 

" It's never my own little daughter, 
It's never my own," she said ; 

" The witches have stolen my Anna, 
And left me an imp instead. 

" 0, fair and sweet was my baby, 
Blue eyes, and ringlets of gold ; 

But this is ugly and wrinkled, 
Cross, and cunning, and old. 

" I hate the touch of her fingers, 

I hate the feel of her skin ; 
It's not the milk from my bosom, 

But my blood, that she sucks in. 

" My face grows sharp with the torment 
Look ! my arms are skin and bone ! — 

Rake open the red coals, goodman, 
And the witch shall have her own. 



" The paths to trouble are many, 

And never but one sure way 
Leads out to the light beyond it : 

My poor wife, let us pray." 
Then he said to the great All-Father, 

" Thy daughter is weak and blind ; 
Let her sight come back, and clothe her 

Once more in her right mind. 
" Lead her out of this evil shadow, 

Out of these fancies wild ; 
Let the holy love of the mother, 

Turn again to her child. 
" Make her lips like the lips of Mary, 

Kissing her blessed Son ; 
Let her hands, like the hands of Jesus, 

Rest on her little one. 
" Comfort the soul of thy handmaid, 

Open her prison door, 
And thine shall be all the glory 

And praise forevermore." 
Then into the face of its mother, 

The baby looked up and smiled ; 
And the cloud of her soul was lifted, 

And she knew her little child. 
A beam of slant west sunshine 

Made the wan face almost fair, 



WHY? 



655 



Lit the blue eyes' patient wonder 
And the rings of pale gold hair. 

She kissed it on lip and forehead, 
She kissed it on cheek and chm ; 

And she bared her snow-white bosom 
To the lips so pale and thin. 

0, fair on her bridal morning 

Was the maid who blushed and smiled, 
But fairer to Ezra Dalton 

Looked the mother of his child. 

With more than a lover's fondness 
He stooped to her worn young face 

And the nursing child and the mother 
He folded in one embrace. 

" Now mount and ride, my goodman 

As lovest thine own soul ! 
Woe's me if my wicked fancies 

Be the death of Goody Cole !" 

His horse he saddled and bridled, 
And into the night rode he,— 

Now through the great black woodland ; 
Now by the white-beached sea. 

He rode through the silent clearings, 

He came to the ferry wide, 
And thrice he called to the boatman 

A.sleep on the other side. 



He set his horse to the river, 
He swam to Newburg town, 




And he called up Justice Sewall 
In his nightcap and his gown. 

And the grave and worshipful justice, 
Upon whose soul be peace ! 

Set his name to the jailer's warrant 
For Goody Cole's release. 

Then through the night the hoof-beafcs 
Went sounding like a flail : 

And Goody Cole at cock crow 
Came forth from Ipswich jail. 



WHY: 



ETHEL LYNN. 



^£1P|0W kind Reuben Esmond is growing 
!||jg of late, 

How he stops every day as he goes 
by the gate, 
Asking after my health. 'Tis a good- 
hearted lad, 
To think of the soldier, so lonely and 
sad', 
The school-children hail me as " Gran'father 

Brown," 
Because I'm the oldest man left in the town : 




But when the slant sunbeams come hither to 

lie, 
Reuben Esmond comes too — I cannot tell 

why. 

For I am a tedious and stupid old man, 

Quite willing to do all the good that I can ; 

But a crutch and a pension will tell you the 
tale 

Of the warm work I had in the Beech-For- 
est Vale. 



656 



THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. 



I've told it to Reuben — well, ten times or 

more — 
I, sitting just here, little Jo in the door, 
(Jo is poor Mary's child, she that came home 

to die, 
God knew it was best, I couldn't see why.) 

And Reuben and Josie, they sit very still, 

When I tell how I fought over Hazelton Hill ; 

But the child turns away if I chance to look 
round, 

And stares at the apple-blooms strewn on 
the ground. 

Then she says I must move when the sun- 
light is gone, 

She isn't afraid to be left there alone ; 

And Reuben springs up so cheerful and spry, 

To help me in-doors — I do wonder why. 

He don't go away — he isn't afraid 

Of the dew on the grass or the deep-falling 

shade. 
It must be very tedious for Josie to stay, 
But she says she don't mind 't is the girl's 

pleasant way. 
She knows I like Reuben ; and so every night 
She pins up her hair with a posy so bright. 
'T is strange — in the morning the red roses 

lie 
All crushed on the step — I do wonder why. 

There's neighbor Grey's son, he acts very 

queer, 
He used to be always so neighborly here ; 
When I call to him now he grows white and 

red, 



Never asks me if Josie is living or dead. 
He don't seem to like her, I thought he did 

once, 
But perhaps the old soldier is only a dunce. 
He won't speak to Reuben when passing him 

by, 

Nor stop at his call — I do wonder why. 

Here's Reuben to-day. He looks round my 

chair 
In tHe doorway for Jo. The child isn't there, 
And the lad looks abashed. " I called — 

Captain Brown," 
And here he stops short, looking awkwardly 

down, 
" To ask you for Josie." The lad lifts his head, 
While his cheek, like a girl's, flushed all over 

red. 
" I will love her and guard her until I shall 

die, 
And she loves me, she says, I cannot tell why." 

I have surely forgotten how Time • never 



How the wave of the year gulfs the drops of 
the days. 

Little Jo seventeen ! Ah, yes, I remember, 

Just seventeen years the eighteenth of No- 
vember. 

Little Josie a bride. " Take her, Reuben, 
and be 

Very tender and patient." More clearly I 
see 

Why Reuben should call every day going by, 

To ask for my welfare. Grandfather knows 
why. 



THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. 



H. W. LONGFELLOW. 




ETWEEN the dark and the daylight, 
When night is beginning to lower, 

Comes a pause in the day's occupations, 
That is known as the children's hour. 

hear in the chamber above me 
The patter of little feet, 



The sound of a door that is opened, 
And voices soft and sweet. 

From my study I see in the lamplight, 
Descending the broad hall stair, 

Grave Alice and laughing Allegra, 
And Edith with golden hair. 




GRANDPA AND HTS PETS 



FRANKLIN'S ARRIVAL IN PHILADELPHIA. 



657 



A whisper and then a silence ; 


Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen 


Yet I know by their merry eyes 


In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine. 


They are plotting and planning together 




To take me by surprise. 


Do you think, blue -eyed banditti, 




Because you have scaled the wall, 


A sudden rush from the stairway, 


Such an old mustache as I am 


A sudden raid from the hall, 


Is not a match for you all ? 


By three doors left unguarded, 




They enter my castle wall. 


I have you fast in my fortress, 




And will not let you depart, 


They climb up into my turret, 


But put you into the dungeon 


O'er the arms and back of my chair : 


In the round-tower of my heart. 


If I try to escape, they surround me : 




They seem to be everywhere. 


And there will I keep you forever, 




Yes, forever and a day, 


They almost devour me with kisses, 


Till the walls shall crumble to ruin. 


Their arms about me intwine, 


And moulder in dust away. 



FRANKLIN 1 8 ARRIVAL IN PHILADELPHIA. 



gfflo 




;N my arrival at Philadelphia, I was in my working dress, my best 
clothes being to come by sea. I was covered with dirt; my 
pockets were filled with shirts and stockings ; I was unacquainted 
with a single soul in the place, and knew not where to seek a 
lodging. 

Fatigued with walking, rowing, and having passed the night 
without sleep, I was extremely hungry, and all my money consisted of a 
Dutch dollar, and about a shilling's worth of coppers, which I gave to the 
boatmen for my passage. As I had assisted them in rowing, they refused 
it at first ; but I insisted on their taking it. A man is sometimes more 
generous when he has little than when he has much money; probably 
because, in the first case, he is desirous of concealing ids poverty. 

I walked towards the top of the street, looking eagerly on both sides, 
till I came to Market Street, where I met with a child with a loaf of 
bread. Often had I made my dinner on dry bread. I inquired where he 
had bought it, and went straight to the baker's shop which he pointed out 
to me. 

I asked for some biscuits, expecting to find such as we had at Boston ; 

but they made, it seems, none of that sort at Philadelphia. I then asked 

tor a three-penny loaf. They made no loaves of that price. Finding 

myself ignorant of the prices, as well as of the different kinds of bread, I 

42 



658 



THROUGH TRIALS. 



desired him to let me have threepenny-worth of bread of some kind or 
other. He gave me three large rolls. I was surprised at receiving so 
much : I took them, however, and, having no room in my pockets, I walked 
on with a roll under each arm, eating a third. In this manner I went 
through Market Street to Fourth Street, and passed the house of Mr. Read 
the father of my future wife. She was standing at the door, observed me, and 
thought, with reason, that I made a very singular and grotesque appearance. 
I then turned the corner, and went through Chestnut Street, eating my 
roll all the way; and, having made this round, I found myself again on 
Market Street wharf, near the boat in which I arrived. I stepped into it to 
take a draught of the river water ; and, finding myself satisfied with my 
first roll, I gave the other two to a woman and her child, who had come 
down with us in the boat, and was waiting to continue her journey. Thus 
refreshed, I regained the street, which was now full of well-dressed people, 
all going the same way. I joined them, and was thus led to a large 
Quakers' meeting-house near the market-place. I sat down with the rest, 
and, after looking round me for some time, hearing nothing said, and being 
drowsy from my last night's labor and want of rest, I fell into a sound 
sleep. In this state I continued till the assembly dispersed, when one of 
the congregation had the goodness to wake me. This was consequently the 
first house I entered, or in which I slept, at Philadelphia. 



THROUGH TRIALS, 




ROSENGAETEN. 



BpHROUGH night to light, And though 
illilll to mortal eyes 

Creation's face a pall of horror wear, 
Good cheer, good cheer ! The gloom 
of midnight flies, 
Then shall a sunrise follow, mild and fair. 

Through storm to calm. And though his 
thunder car 
The rumbling tempest drive through earth 
and sky, 
Good cheer, good cheer ! The elemental war 
Tells that a blessed healing hour is nigh. 

Through frost to spring. And though the 
biting blast 
Of Euru.s stiffen nature's juicy veins, 



Good cheer, good cheer ! When winter's wra'b 
is past, 
Soft murmuring spring breathes sweeriy 
o'er the plains. 

Through strife to peace. And though with 

bristling front, 

A thousand frightful deaths encompass thee, 

Good cheer, good cheer ! Brave thou the 

battle's brunt, 

For the peace march and song of victory. 

Through cross to crown. And through thy 
spirit's life 
Trials untold assail with giant strength. 
Good cheer, good cheer! Soon ends the bittei 
strife. 



VISION OF THE MONK GABRIEL. 



659 



And thou shalt reign in peace with Christ 
at length. 

Through death to life. And through this 
vale of tears, 



And through this thistle-field of life, as- 
cend 
To the great supper in that world, whose 

years 
Of bliss unfading, cloudless, know no end. 



VISION OF TEE MONK GABRIEL. 




ELEANOR C. DONNELLY. 



fPlfipiS the soft twilight. Round the 
||^|k shining fender, — 

Two at my feet and one upon my 
knee, — 
Dreamy-eyed Elsie, bright-lipped Isa- 
bel, 
And thou, my golden-headed Raphael, 
My fairy, small and slender, 
Listen to what befell 
Monk Gabriel, 
In the old ages ripe with mystery : 
Listen, my darlings, to the legend tender. 

An aged man with grave, but gentle look — 
His silence sweet with sounds 
With which the simple-hearted spring 

abounds ; 
Lowing of cattle from the abbey grounds, 
Chirping of insect, and the building rock 
Mingled like murmurs of a dreaming shell ; 
Quaint tracery of bird, and branch, and brook, 
Flitting across the pages of his book, 
Until the very words a freshness took — 
Deep in his cell 
Sat the monk Gabriel. 

In his book he read 
The words the Master to His dear ones said : 

" A little while and ye 
Shall see, 

Shall gaze on Me ; 

A little while again, 

Ye shall not see Me then." 
A little while ! 
The monk looked up — a smile 
Making his visage brilliant, liquid-eyed : 
" Thou who gracious art 



Unto the poor of heart, 
blessed Christ!" he cried, 

" Great is the misery 

Of mine iniquity ; 
But would /now might see, 
Might feast on Thee !" 
— The blood with sudden start,. 
Nigh rent his veins apart — 
(Oh condescension of the Crucified :) 

In all the brilliancy 

Of His Humanity — 
The Christ stood by his side ! 

Pure as the early lily was His skin, 
His cheek out-blushed the rose, 

His lips, the glows 
Of autumn sunset on eternal snows ; 

And His deep eyes within, 
Such nameless beauties, wondrous glories 

dwelt 
The monk in speechless adoration knelt. 
In each fair hand, in each fair foot there shone 
The peerless stars He took from Calvary ; 
Around His brows in tenderest lucency 
The thorn-marks lingered, like the flash of 

dawn ; 
And from the opening in His side there rilled 
A light, so dazzling, that all the room was 

filled 
With heaven ; and transfigured in his place, 

His very breathing stilled, 
The friar held his robe before his face, 

And heard the angels singing ! 

'Twas but a moment — then, upon the 
spell 
Of this sweet presence, lo ! a something broke; 



660 



BOOK-BUYERS. 



A something trembling, in the belfry woke, 


An hour hence, his duty nobly done 


A shower of metal music flinging 


Back to his cell he came ; 


O'er wold and moat, o'er park and lake and 


Unasked, unsought, lo ! his reward was won ! 


fell, 


— Rafters and walls and floor were yet 


And through the open windows of the cell 


aflame 


In silver chimes came ringing. 


With all the matchless glory of that sun, 




And in the centre stood the Blessed One 


It was the bell 


(Praise be His Holy Name !) 


Calling monk Gabriel, 


"Who for our sakes our crosses made His own, 


Unto his daily task, 


And bore our weight of shame. 


To feed the paupers at the abbey gate ; 




No respite did he ask, 


Down on the threshold fell 


Nor for a second summons idly wait ; 


Monk Gabriel, 


But rose up, saying in his humble way ; 


His forehead pressed upon the floor of clay, 


"Fain would I stay, 


And while in deep humility he lay, 


Lord ! and feast alway 


(Tears raining from his happy eyes away) 


Upon, the honeyed sweetness of Thy beauty ; 


" Whence is this favor, Lord ?" he strove to 


But 'tis Thy will, not mine. I must obey. 


say. 


Help me to do my duty !" 




The while the Vision smiled, 


The Vision only said, 


The monk went forth, light-hearted as a 


Lifting its shining head ; 


child. 


" If thou hadst staid, son, /must have fled." 



BOOK-BUYERS. 



JOHN RUSKIN. 



SAY we have despised literature; what do we, as a nation, care 
about books ? How much do you think we spend altogether on our 
libraries, public or private, as compared with what we spend on our 
horses ? If a man spends lavishly on his library, you call him mad — a 
bibliomaniac. But you never call one a horse-maniac, though men ruin 
themselves every day by their horses, and you do not hear of people 
ruining themselves by their books. Or, to go lower still, how much do 
you think the contents of the book-shelves of the United Kingdom, public 
and private, would fetch, as compared with the contents of its wine cellars? 
What position would its expenditure on literature take as compared with 
its expenditure on luxurious eating ? We talk of food for the mind, as of 
food for the body : now, a good book contains such food inexhaustibly : it 
is provision for life, and for the best part of us ; yet, how long most people 
would look at the best book before they would give the price of a large 
turbot for it! Though there have been men who have pinched their 
stomachs and bared their backs to buy a book, whose libraries were cheaper 



VOLTAIRE AND WILBERFORCE. 



661 



to them, I think, in the«end, than most men's dinners are. We are few of 
us put to such a trial, and more the pity ; for, indeed, a precious thing is 
all the more precious to us if it has been won by work or economy ; and if 
public libraries were half as costly as public dinners, or books cost the 
tenth part of what bracelets do, even foolish men and women might some- 
times suspect there was good in reading as well as in munching tand spark- 
ling; whereas the very cheapness of literature is making even wiser people 
forget that if a book is worth reading it is worth buying. 



DAY DAWK 




H. W. LONGFELLOW. 



WIND came up out of the sea, 
And said, " 0, mists, make room for 




It hailed the ships, and cried, " Sail on, 
Ye mariners, the night is gone." 



And hurried landward far away, 
Crying " Awake! it is the d?y." 

It said unto the forest, " Shout ! 
Hang all your leafy banners out !" 

It touched the wood-bird's folded wing, 
And said " bird, awake and sing," 

And o'er the farms, " chanticleer, 
Your clarion blow, the day is near." 

It whispered to the fields of corn, 

" Bow down, and hail the coming morn. 

It shouted through the belfry tower, 
" Awake ; bell ! proclaim the hour." 

It crossed the churchyard with a sigh, 
And said. " Not yet ! in quiet lie." 



VOLTAIRE AND WILBERFORCE. 




WILLIAM B. SPRAGUE. 



|ET me now, for a moment, show you what the two systems — Atheism 
and Christianity — can do, have done, for individual character ; and 
I can think of no two names to which I may refer with more con- 
fidence, in the way of illustration, than Voltaire and Wilberforce ; 
both of them names which stand out with prominence. 



662 VOLTAIRE AND WILBERFORCE. 



Voltaire was perhaps the master-spirit in the school of French Atheism ; 
and though he was not alive to participate in the horrors of the revolution, 
probably he did more by his writings to combine the elements for that 
tremendous tempest than any other man. And now I undertake to say 
that you may draw a character in which there shall be as much of the 
blackness of moral turpitude as your imagination can supply, and yet 
you shall not have exceeded the reality as it was found in the character of 
this apostle of Atheism. You may throw into it the darkest shades of 
selfishness, making the man a perfect idolater of himself; you may paint 
the serpent in his most wily form to represent deceit and cunning; you 
may let sensuality stand forth in all the loathsomeness of a beast in the 
mire; you may bring out envy, and malice, and all the baser and all the 
darker passions, drawing nutriment from the pit; and when you have done 
this, you may contemplate the character of Voltaire, and exclaim, " Here 
is the monstrous original!" The fires of his genius kindled only to wither 
and consume; he stood, for almost a century, a great tree of poison, not 
only cumbering the ground, but infusing death into the atmosphere; and 
though its foliage has long since dropped off, and its branches have with- 
ered, and its trunk fallen, under the hand of time, its deadly root still 
remains; and the very earth that nourishes it is cursed for its sake. 

And now I will speak of Wilberforce; and I do it with gratitude and 
triumph, — gratitude to the God who made him what he was; triumph that 
there is that in his very name which ought to make Atheism turn pale. 
Wilberforce was the friend of man. Wilberforce was the friend of enslaved 
and wretched man. Wilberforce (for I love to repeat his name) consecrated 
the energies of his whole life to one of the noblest objects of benevolence; 
it was in the cause of injured Africa that he often passed the night in 
intense and wakeful thought; that he counseled with the wise, and 
reasoned with the unbelieving, and expostulated with the unmerciful ; that 
his heart burst forth with all its melting tenderness, and his genius with 
all its electric fire; that he turned the most accidental meeting into a con- 
ference for the relief of human woe, and converted even the Senate-House 
into a theatre of benevolent action. Though his zeal had at one time 
almost eaten him up, and the vigor of his frame was so far gone that he 
stooped over and looked into his own grave, yet his faith failed not; and, 
blessed be God, the vital spark was kindled up anew, and he kept on labor- 
ing through a long succession of years; and at length, just as his friends 
were gathering around him to receive his last whisper, and the angels were 
gathering around to receive his departing spirit, the news, worthy to be 
borne by angels, was brought to him, that the great object to which his 



SUNRISE IN THE VALLEY OF CHAMOUNIX. 



663 



life had been given was gained; and then, Simeon-like, he clasped his 
hands to die, and went off to heaven with the sound of deliverance to the 
captive vibrating sweetly upon his ear. 

Both Voltaire and Wilberforce are dead; but each of them lives in 
the character he has left behind him. And now who does not delight to 
honor the character of the one? who does not shudder to contemplate the 
character of the other ? 



SUNRISE IN THE VALLEY OF CHAMOUNIX. 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 



^tl^WAKE, my soul ! not only passive 

Thou owest ! not alone these swell- 
ing tears, 
Mute thanks and secret ecstacy ! 
•f Awake, 

J Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, 

awake ! 
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. 

Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the 

vale ! 
0, struggling with the darkness all the night, 
And visited all night by troops of stars, 
Or when they climb the sky or when they 

sink, — ^ 

Companion of the morning-star at dawn, 
Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn, 
Co-herald, — wake, 0, wake, and utter praise ! 
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth ? 
"Who filled thy countenance with rosy light ? 
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams ? 

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! 
Who called you forth from night and utter 

death, 
From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, 
Forever shattered and the same forever ? 
Who gave you your invulnerable life, 
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and 

your joy, 
Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? 
And who commanded (and the silence came), 
Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest ? 



Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's 

brow 
Adown enormous ravines slope amain, — 
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, 
And stopped at once amid their maddest 

plunge ! 
Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! 

Who made you glorious as the gates of 

Heaven 
Beneath the keen full moon ? Who bade the 

sun 
Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with 

living flowers 
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet? 

God! — let the torrents, like a shout of 
nations, 

Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God ! 

God ! sing, ye meadow-streams, with glad- 
some voice ! 

Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like 
sounds ! 

And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, 

And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! 

Ye living Mowers that skirt the eternal frost ! 
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest ! 
Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm ! 
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! 
Ye signs and wonders of the elements ! 
Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise ! 



Thou, too, boar Mount ! 
pointing peaks, 



with thy sky- 



664 



SUNRISE IN THE VALLEY OF CHAMOUNIX. 



Oft from whose feet the avalanche unheard, 
Shoots downward, glittering through the 

pure serene, 
Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast - 



Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, 
To rise before me, — Rise, 0, ever rise ! 
Rise like a cloud of incense, from the Earth ! 
Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills, 




Then too again, stupendous Mountain ! thou 
That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low 
In adoration, upward from thy base 
Slow traveling with dim eyes suffused with 
tears, 



Thou dread ambassador from Earth to 

Heaven, 
Great Hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky, 
And tell the stars and tell yon rising sun, 
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God 



THE POWER OF WORDS. 665 



THE POWER OF WORDS. 




EDWIN P. WHIPPLE. 



ORDS are most effective when arranged in that order which is 
called style. The great secret of a good style, we are told, is to 
have proper words in proper places. To marshal one's verbal 
battalions in such order that they may bear at once upon all 
quarters of a subject, is certainly a great art. This is done in 
different ways. Swift, Temple, Addison, Hume, Gibbon, Johnson, 
Burke, are all great generals in the discipline of their verbal armies and 
the conduct of their paper wars. Each has a system of tactics of his own, 
and excels in the use of some particular weapon. 

The tread of Johnson's style is heavy and sonorous, resembling that of 
an elephant or a mail-clad warrior. He is fond of leveling an obstacle by 
a polysyllabic battering-ram. Burke's words are continually practicing 
the broad-sword exercise, and swooping down adversaries with every 
stroke. Arbuthnot " plays his weapon like a tongue of flame." Addison 
draws up his light infantry in orderly array, and marches through sentence 
after sentence without having his ranks disordered or his line broken. 
Luther is different. His words are " half battles ;" " his smiting idiomatic 
phrases seem to cleave into the very heart of the matter." Gibbon's 
legions are heavily armed, and march with precision and dignity to the 
music of their own tramp. They are splendidly equipped, but a nice eye 
can discern a little rust beneath their fine apparel, and there are sutlers in 
his camp who lie, cog, and talk gross obscenity. Macaulay, brisk, lively, 
keen, and energetic, runs his thought rapidly through his sentence, and 
kicks out of the way every word which obstructs his passage. He reins 
in his steed only when he has reached his goal, and then does it with such 
celerity that he is nearly thrown backwards by the suddenness of his stop- 
page. Gifford's words are moss-troopers, that waylay innocent travelers 
and murder them for hire. Jeffrey is a fine " lance," with a sort of Arab 
swiftness in his movement, and runs an iron-clad horseman through the eye 
before he has had time to close his helmet. 

John Wilson's camp is a disorganized mass, who might do effectual 
service under better discipline, but who, under his lead, are suffered to 
carry on a rambling and predatory warfare, and disgrace their general by 
flagitious excesses. Sometimes they steal, sometimes swear, sometimes 
drink, and sometimes pray. Swift's words are porcupine's quills, which he 
throws with unerring aim at whoever approaches his lair. All of Ebene- 
zer Elliot's words are gifted with huge fists, to pommel and bruise. Chat- 



666 



DUST ON HER BIBLE. 



ham and Mirabeau throw hot shot into their opponents' magazines. 
Talfourd's forces are orderly and disciplined, and march to the music of 
the Dorian flute; those of Keats keep time to the tones of the pipe of 
Phoebus; and the hard, harsh-fea/tured battalions of Maginn are always 
preceded by a brass band. Hallam's word infantry can do much execution 
when they are not in each other's way. Pope's phrases are either daggers 
or rapiers. Willis's words are often tipsy with the champagne of the 
fancy, but even when they reel and stagger they keep the line of grace 
and beauty, and, though scattered at first by a fierce onset from graver 
cohorts, soon reunite without wound or loss. 

John Neal's forces are multitudinous, and fire briskly at every thing. 
They occupy all the provinces of letters, and are nearly useless from being 
spread over too much ground. Everett's weapons are ever kept in good 
order, and shine well in the sun ; but they are little calculated for warfare, 
and rarely kill when they strike. Webster's words are thunderbolts, 
which sometimes miss the Titans at whom they are hurled, but always 
leave enduring marks when they strike. Hazlitt's verbal army is some- 
times drunk and surly, sometimes foaming with passion, sometimes cool 
and malignant, but, drunk or sober, are ever dangerous to cope with. 
Some of Tom Moore's words are shining dirt, which he flings with 
excellent aim. This list might be indefinitely extended, and arranged with 
more regard to merit and chronology. My own words, in this connection, 
might be compared to ragged, undisciplined militia, which could be easily 
routed by a charge of horse, and which are apt to fire into each others' 
faces. 



DUST ON HER BIBLE. 



ROBERT LOWRY. 



f^m MET her where Folly was queen of the 
If) throng, 

f§jjp5 And Mirth bade the giddy ones come, 
§vh And she, 'mid the wildest, in dance 
k> and in song, 

¥ Swept on with the current, so turgid 
J and strong — 

There was dust on her Bible at home. 

I met her again when, away from the gay, 
In the stillness of thought she would roam ; 



But the words of the scoffer that dropped by 

the way 
Betokened how sadly her heart was astray — 
There was dust on her Bible at home. 

I met her once more, but her brow had no care, 
Her soul was Immanuel's throne ; 

And I knew by the artless and tear-moistened 
prayer, 

That rose from the spirit in suppliance there. 
That the dust on her Bible was gone 



WINTER SPORTS. 



667 



WINTER SPORTS. 



(0 some, the winter is a season to be dreaded. In their poverty they 
are exposed to the cutting blasts, the snow, the ice, the long dark 
nights, the lack of many sources of employment. To others, win- 
ter brings exhilaration and enjoyment of the keenest sort. The 
eyes need not close upon the more sombre views of this rigorous 
season, nor need the heart refuse the appeals of the suffering, if for a time 
the more cheery side be viewed and winter sports be contemplated. 

Despite the chilling blasts the people generally are ready to spring to 
their cutters and sleighs of more pretentious size whenever snow falls and 

opportunity offers. The merry laugh, 
the joyful shout, the cheery song mingle 
with the jingling sleigh-bells on city 
streets and country roads, and for the 
time a carnival of joy prevails. The 
heavy sledges of traffic gather up liv- 
ing loads, the business wagon affixed 
to runners becomes a pleasure vehicle for a happy family, while the small 
hoy with hand-sled, home-made and rough or factory-made and costly, 
plies his vocation catching a ride from the passing team, or coasting upon 
some convenient hill. All these pursuits are followed with a relish seldom 
felt in summer pastimes. Away from the city's busy sleighing scenes 
winter sports multiply and intensify. Whittier tells of — 

The moonlit skater's keen delight, 
The sleigh-drive through the frosty night, 
The rustic party, with its rough 
Accompaniment of blind man's buff." 





668 



WINTER SPORTS. 



Something of these scenes is familiar to every one. To see them is 
an inspiration ; to take part in them renews the youth of the aged ; and 
reinvigorates the young ; to remember them is like " the sound of distant 
music, sweet, though mournful to the soul." 

Few sports seem rougher than the tumble in the snow or the well- 
conte^ted battle with snow-balls. But who refuses to take a hand in such 
a contest ? Even the staid and dignified men and matrons are led easily 
into indulgences at this point. Considerations of health, or of garments 
come before these prudent seniors, but down they go, regarded but for a 
moment, when challenged to sport like this. The Quaker Poet himself 
knew how this matter stood, for he declares in "Snow Bound," that 



" the watchful young men saw 

Sweet doorway pictures of the curls, 
And curious eyes of merry girls, 
Lifting their hands in mock defence 
Against the snow-ball's compliments." 







True, here the poet speaks of young people and their enjoyment, but 
the evident relish he has for the whole matter shows that he himself 
knew just how the matter stood. It may be doubted whether he could 
long resist an appeal to toss these tender " missives " through some open 
doorway, did curly heads and bright eyes but present themselves there. 

To enter with zest and yet with care into the real enjoyment of out- 
door sports — and especially in the bracing winter months — is the part of 
wisdom. Exhilaration, such as can be gained in no other way, is thus se- 
cured. True health and vigor must exist before a hearty participation 
can be had in such sports. But a helpful participation can be had on a 
small physical capital. That effeminacy which dreads the bracing, highly 
oxygenized atmosphere of midwinter is not conducive to manly strength. 
On the other hand, there is a recklessness of exposure which is mistaken 



THE ROSE. 



669 



for manliness. This is equally undesirable. It will break one's constitu- 
tion, and between a good constitution broken and one never strong there 
is but little choice." Wise care blended with hearty earnestness should 
rule our winter enjoyments. And a kindly consideration for less favored 
ones should never be neglected. Many need our help, and should have it 
freely while we ourselves rejoice. 



THE ROSE. 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 




But 



. I- 

N his tower sat the poet 

) Gazing on the roaring sea, 

} "Take this rose," he sighed, "and 

i throw it 

Where there's none that loveth 
me. 
On the rock the billow bursteth, 
And sinks back into the seas, 
in vain my spirit thirsteth 
So to burst and be at ease. 



" Take, sea ! the tender blossom 

That hath lain against my breast; 

On thy black and angry bosom 
It will find a surer rest, 

Life is vain, and love is hollow, 

Ugly death stands there behind, 



Hate, and scorn, and hunger follow 
Him that toileth for his kind." 

Forth into the night he hurled it, 

And with bitter smile did mark 
How the surly tempest whirled it 

Swift into the hungry dark. 
Foam and spray drive back to leeward. 

And the gale, with dreary moan, 
Drifts the helpless blossom seaward, 

Through the breaking, all alone. 

II. 

Stands a maiden, on the morrow, 

Musing by the wave-beat strand, 
Half in hope, and half in sorrow 

Tracing words upon the sand : 
" Shall I ever then behold him 

Who hath been my life so long, — 
Ever to this sick heart fold him, — 

Be the spirit of his song? 




" Touch not, sea, the blessed letters 
I have traced upon thy shore, 

Spare his name whose spirit fetters 
Mine with love forever more ! " 

Swells the tide and overflows it, 
But with omen pure and meet, 



670 



THE LOST LOVE. 




Brings a little rose, and throws it 
Humbly at the maiden's feet. 

Full of bliss she takes the token, 

And, upon her snowy breast, 
Soothes the ruffled petals broken 

With the ocean's fierce unrest. 
" Love is thine, heart ! and surely 

Peace shall also be thine own, 
For the heart that trusteth purely 

Never long can pine alone." 

III. 
In his tower sits the poet, 

Blisses new, and strange to him 
Fill his heart and overflow it 

With a wonder sweet and dim. 



Up the beach the ocean slideth 
With a whisper of delight, 

And the moon in silence glideth, 

Through the peaceful blue of night. 

Rippling o'er the poet's shoulder 

Flows a maiden's golden hair, 
Maiden lips, with love grown bolder, 

Kiss his moonlit forehead bare. 
" Life is joy, and love is power, 

Death all fetters doth unbind, 
Strength and wisdom only flower 

When we toil for all our kind. 

Hope is truth, the future giveth 

More than present takes away, 
And the soul forever liveth 

Nearer God from day to day." 
Not a word the maiden muttered, 

Fullest hearts are slow to speak, 
But a withered rose-leaf fluttered 

Down upon the poet's cheek. 




THE LOST LOVE. 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 



IffwHE dwelt among the untrodden ways 
|||m| Beside the springs of Dove ; 
^g^A maid whom there were none- to praise 
And very few to love. 



She lived unknown, and few could know 

When Lucy ceased to be ; 
But she is in her grave, and 

The difference to me! 



BUCK FANSHAW'S FUNERAL. 671 



BUCK FANSHAW'S FUNERAL. 



S. C. CLEMENS. 



IJUJigHERE was a grand time over Buck Fanshaw when lie died. He 
dUb was a representative citizen. On the inquest it was shown that, 
X in the delirium of a wasting typhoid fever he had taken arsenic, 
* shot himself through the body, cut his throat, and jumped out of a 
t four-story window and broken his neck, and, after due deliberation, 
J the j ury, sad and tearful, but with intelligence unblinded by its sor- 
row, brought in a verdict of " death by the visitation of Providence." 
What could the world do without juries ! 

Prodigious preparations were made for the funeral. All the vehicles 
in town were hired, all the saloons were put in mourning, all the muni- 
cipal and fire-company flags were hung at half-mast and all the firemen 
ordered to muster in uniform, and bring their machines duly draped in 
black. 

Eegretful resolutions were passed and various committees appointed ; 
among others, a committee of one was deputed to call on the minister— a 
fragile, gentle, spiritual new fledgling from an eastern theological semi- 
nary, and as yet unacquainted with the ways of the mines. The commit- 
tee-man, " Scotty " Briggs, made his visit. 

Being admitted to his presence, he sat down before the clergyman, 
placed his fire-hat on an unfinished manuscript sermon under the minister's 
nose, took from it a red silk handkerchief, wiped his brow, and heaved a 
sigh of dismal impressiveness, explanatory of his business. He choked and 
even shed tears, but with an effort he mastered his voice, and said, in lugu- 
brious tones : 

" Are you the duck that runs the gospel-mill next door ? " 

"Am I the — pardon me, I believe I do not understand." 

With another sigh and a half sob, Scotty rejoined : 

" Why you see we are in a bit of trouble, and the boys thought maybe 
you'd give us a lift, if we'd tackle you, that is, if I've got the rights of it, 
and you're the head clerk of the doxology works next door." 

"I am the shepherd in charge of the flock whose fold is next 
door." 

" The which?" 

" The spiritual adviser of the little company of believers whose sanc- 
tuary adjoins these premises." 

Scotty scratched his head, reflected a moment, and then said: 



672 BUCK $ ANSHAW'S FUNERAL. 

" You ruther hold over me, pard. I reckon I can't call that card. 
Ante and pass the buck." 

" How ? I beg your pardon. What did I understand you to say ? " 

" Well, you've ruther got the bulge on me. Or maybe we've both got 
the bulge, somehow. You don't smoke me and I don't smoke you. You 
see one of the boys has passed in his checks, and we want to give him a 
good send off, and so the thing I'm on now is to roust out somebody to 
jerk a little chin-music for us, and waltz him through handsome." 

" My friend, I seem to grow more and more bewildered. Your obser- 
vations are wholly incomprehensible to me. Can you not simplify them 
some way ? At first I thought perhaps I understood you, but I grope 
now. Would it not expedite matters if you restricted yourself to the cate- 
gorical statements of fact unincumbered with obstructing accumulations of 
metaphor and allegory ? " 

Another pause and more reflection. Then Scotty said : " I'll have to 
pass, I judge." 

"How?" 

" You've raised me out, pard." 

" I still fail to catch your meaning." 

" Why, that last lead of your'n is too many for me — that's- the idea. 
I can't neither trump nor follow suit." . 

The clergyman sank back in his chair perplexed. Scotty leaned his 
head on his hand, and gave himself up to reflection. Presently his face 
came up, sorrowful, but confident. 

" I've got it now, so's you can savvy," said he. " What we want is a 
gospel-sharp. See ? " 

"A what?" 

" Gospel-sharp. Parson." 

" Oh ! Why did you not say so before ? I am a clergyman — a 

parson." 

" Now you talk ! You see my blind, and straddle it like a man. Put 
it there !" — extending a brawny paw, which closed over the minister's small 
hand and gave it a shake indicative of fraternal sympathy and fervent 
gratification. 

" Take him all round, pard, there never was abullier man in the mines. < 
No man ever know'd Buck Fanshaw to go back on a friend. But it's all 
up, you know ; it's all up. It ain't no use. They've scooped him ! " 

" Scooped him ? " 

" Yes — death has. Well, well, well, we've got to give him up. Yes, 
indeed. It's a kiud of a hard world after all, ain't it ? But, pard, he was 



BUCK FANSHAW'S FUNERAL. 673 

a rustler. ' You ought to seen him get started once. He was a bully boy 
with a glass eye ! Just spit in his face, and give him room according to 
his strength, and it was just beautiful to see him peel and go in. He was 
the worst son of a thief that ever draw'd breath. Pard, he was on it. He 
was on it bigger than an injun ! " 

"On it? On what?" 

" On the shoot. On the shoulder. On the fight. Understand ? He 
didn't give a continental — for anybody. Beg your pardon, friend, for 
coming so near saying a cuss word — but you see I'm on an awful strain in 
this palaver, on account of having to cramp down and draw everything so 
mild. But we've got to give him up. There ain't any getting around 
that, I don't reckon. Now if we can get you to help plant him — " 

" Preach the funeral discourse ? Assist at the obsequies? " 

" Obs'quies is good. Yes. That's it ; that's our little game. We are 
going to get up the thing regardless, you know. He was always nifty 
himself, and so you bet you his funeral ain't going to be no slouch ; solid 
silver door-plate on his coffin, six plumes on the hearse, and a nigger on 
the box, with a biled shirt and a plug hat on — how's that for high ? And 
we'll take care of you, pard. We'll fix you all right. There will be a 
kerridge for you ; and whatever you want you just 'scape out, and we'll 
tend to it. We've got a shebang fixed up for you to stand behind in No. 
l's house, and don't you be afraid. Just go in and toot your horn, if you 
don't sell a clam. Put Buck through as bully as you can, pard, for any- 
body that know'd him will tell you that he was one of the whitest men 
that was ever in the mines. You can't draw it too strong to do him jus- 
tice. Here once when the Micks got to throwing stones through the 
Methodist Sunday-school windows, Buck Fanshaw, all of his own notion, 
shut up his saloon, and took a couple of six-shooters and mounted guard 
over the Sunday-school. Says he, 'No Irish need apply.' And they 
didn't. He was the bulliest man in the mountains, pard ; he could run 
faster, jump higher, hit harder, and hold more tangle-foot whiskey without 
spilling it than any man in seventeen counties. Put that in, pard ; it'll 
please the boys more than anything you could say. And you can say, 
pard, that he never shook his mother." 

" Never shook his mother? " 

" That's it — any of the boys will tell you so." 

" Well, but why should he shake her ? " 

" That's what I say — but some people does." 

" Not people of any repute ? " 

" Well, some that averages pretty so-so." 
43 



674 



THE HOUR OF DEATH. 



" In my opinion a man that would offer personal violence to his 
mother, ought to — " 

" Cheese it, pard ; you've banked your ball clean outside the string. 
What I was a-drivin' at was that he never throwed off on his mother — 
don't you see ? No indeedy ! He give her a house to live in, and town 
lots, and plenty of money ; and he looked after her and took care of her all 
the time ; and when she was down with the small-pox, I'm cuss'd if he 
didn't set up nights and nuss her himself ! Beg your pardon for saying it, 
but it hopped out too quick for yours truly. You've treated me like a 
gentleman, and I ain't the man to hurt your feelings intentional. I think 
you're white. I think you're a square man, pard. I like you, and I'll 
lick any man that don't. I'll lick him till he can't tell himself from a last 
year's corpse. Put it there ! " 

[Another fraternal handshake — and exit.] 



THE HOUR OF DEATH 



MES. F. HEMANS. 



IpEAVES have their time to fall, 
fllfAnd flowers to wither at the north 

wind's breath, 
And stars to set — but all, 
•* Thou hast all seasons for thine own, 

oh Death ! 



Day is for mortal care, 
Eve for glad meetings round the j oyous hearth, 
Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of 
prayer — 
But all for Thee, thou mightiest of the earth. 

The banquet hath its hour, 
Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine ; 
There comes a day for griefs o'erwhelming 
power, 
A time for softer tears — but all are thine. 

Youth and the opening rose 
May look like things too glorious for decay, 
And smile at thee — but thou art not of 
those 
That wait the ripened bloom tc seize their 
prey. 



Leaves have their time to fall, 
And flowers to wither at the north wind's 
breath, 
And stars to set — but all, 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh Death ! 

We know when moons shall wane, 
When summer-birds from far shall cross the 
sea, 
When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden 
grain — 
But who shall teach us when to look for 
thee? 

Is it when Spring's first gale 
Comes forth to whisper where the violet3 
lie? 
Is it when roses in our paths grow pale ? — 
They have one season— all are ours to die ! 

Thou art where billows foam, 
Thou art where music melts upon the air ; 

Thou art around us in our peaceful home, 
And the world calls us forth — and thou art 
there. 



GRANDMOTHER'S SPECTACLES. 



675 



Thou art where friend meets friend, 
Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest — 
Thon art where foe meets foe, and trumpets 
rend 
The skies, and swords beat down the princely 
crest. 



Leaves have their time to fall, 
And flowers to wither at the north wind's 
breath, 
And stars to set — but all, 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh 
Death ! 



ANSWER " TO THE HOUR OF DEATH." 



MRS. CORNWALL BARON WILSON. 




^fH^RUE, all we know must die, 

K i mfm!fo 

Though none can tell the exact ap- 
pointed hour ; 
Nor should it cost the virtuous heart 
a sigh, 

I Whether death doth crush the oak, or 

<• nip the opening flower. 

The Christian is prepared, 
Though others tremble at the hour of gloom ! 

His soul is always ready on his guard ; 
His lamps are lighted 'gainst the bridegroom 
come. 

It matters not the time 
When we shall end our pilgrimage below ; 
Whether in youth's bright morn, or man- 
hood's prime, 
Or when the frost of age has whitened o'er 
our brow. 

The child has blossomed fair, 
And looked so lovely on its mother's breast, 



The source of many a hope and many a 
prayer, 
Why murmur that it sleeps when all at last 
may rest ? 

Snatched from a world of woe, 
Where they must suffer most who longest 
dwell, 
It vanished like a flake of early snow, 
That melts into the sea, pure as from heaven 
it fell. 

The youth whose pulse beats high, 
Eager through glory's brilliant course to run, 
Why should we shed a tear or breathe a 
sigh, 
That the bright goal is gained — the prize thus 
early won ! 

Yes ! all we know must die. 
Since none can tell the exact appointed hour. 
Why need it cost the virtuous heart a sigh, 
Whether death doth crush the oak, or nip the 
opening flower ? 



GRANDMOTHER'S SPECTACLES. 




T. DE WITT TALMAGE. 



jUT sometimes these optical instruments get old and dim. Grand- 
mother's pair had done good work in their day. They were large 
and round, so that when she saw a thing she saw it. There was 
a crack across the upper part of the glass, for many a baby had 
made them a plaything, and all the grandchildren had at some 
time tried them on. They had sometimes been so dimmed with tears that 



676 



GRANDMOTHER'S SPECTACLES. 



she had to take them off and wipe them on her apron before she could see 
through them at all. Her " second-sight" had now come, and she would 
often let her glasses slip down, and then look over the top of them while 
she read. Grandmother was pleased at this return of her vision. Getting 




along so well without them, she often lost her spectacles. Sometimes they 
would lie for weeks untouched on the shelf in the red morocco case, the 
flap unlifted. She could now look off upon the hills, which for thirty years 
she had not been able to see from the piazza. Those were mistaken who 
thought she had no poetry in her soul. You could see it in the way she 



THE OLD VILLAGE CHOIR. 



677 



put her hand under the chin of a primrose, or cultured the geranium. 
Sitting on the piazza one evening, in her rocking-chair, she saw a ladder 
of cloud set up against the sky, and thought how easy it would be for a 
spirit to climb it. She saw in the deep glow of the sunset a chariot of 
fire, drawn by horses of fire, and wondered who rode in it. She saw a 
vapor floating thinly away, as though it were a wing ascending, and grand- 
mother muttered in a low tone: "A vapor that appeareth for a little sea- 
son, and then vanisheth away." She saw a hill higher than any she had 
ever seen before on the horizon, and on the top of it a king's castle. The 
motion of the rocking-chair became slighter and slighter, until it stopped. 
The spectacles fell out of her lap. A child, hearing it, ran to pick them 
up, and cried: " Grandmother, what is the matter?" She answered not. 
She never spake again. Second-sight had come ! Her vision had grown 
better and better. What she could not see now was not worth seeing. 
Not now through a glass darkly! Grandmother had no more need of 
spectacles ! 



I 



THE OLD VILLAGE CHOIR. 



BENJAMIN F. TAYLOR 



HAVE fancied sometimes the Bethel- 
bent beam 
That trembled to earth in the patri- 
arch's dream, 
Was a ladder of song in that wilder- 
ness rest, 
From the pillow of stone to the blue 
of the Blest, 
.And the angels descending to dwell with us 

here, 
"Old Hundred" and "Corinth," and "China" 
and " Mear," 

.All the hearts are not dead nor under the 
« sod, 

That these breaths can blow open to heaven 
and God. 

Ah, "Silver Street" flows by a bright shining 
road — 

Oh, not to the hymns that in harmony flowed, 

But the sweet human psalms of the old- 
fashioned choir, 

'To the girl that sang alto, the girl that sang 
air. 



" Let us sing to God's praise !" the minister 

said: 
All the psalm books at once fluttered open at 

"York." 
Sunned their long-dotted wings in the words 

that he read, 
While the leader leaped into the tune just 

ahead, 
And politely picked up the key-note with a 

fork, 
And the vicious old viol went growling along 
At the heels of the girls in the rear of the 

song. 



Oh, I need not a wing ; — bid no genii come 
With a wonderful web from Arabian loom, j 
To bear me again up the river of Time, 
When the world was in rhythm and life was 

its rhyme, 
And the stream of the years flowed so noise- 
less and narrow 
That across it there floated the song of a 
sparrow ; 



678 



THE CORAL GROVE. 



For a sprig of green caraway carries me 

there, 
To the old village church and the old village 

choir, 
Where clear of the floor my feet slowly 

swung 
And timed the sweet pulse of the praise that 

they sung, 
Till the glory aslant from the afternoon sun 
Seemed the rafters of gold in God's temple 

begun ! 

You may smile at the nasals of old Deacon 

Brown, 
Who followed by scent till he ran the tune 

down, 



And dear sister Green, with more goodness; 

than grace, 
Rose and fell on the tunes as she stood in her 

place, 
And where " Coronation " exultantly flows 
Tried to reach the high notes on the tips of 

her toes ! 
To the land of the leal they have gone with 

their song, 
Where the choir and the chorus together be- 



Oh ! be lifted, ye gates ! Let us hear them 

again, 
Blessed song! Blessed singers! forever,. 

Amen ! 




THE CORAL GROVE. 



JAMES G. PERCIVAL. 




$EEP in the wave is a coral grove, 
Where the purple mullet, and gold 

fish rove ; 
Where the sea-flower spreads its 

leaves of blue 
That never are wet with falling dew, 
But in bright and changeful beauty 
shine 
Far down in the green and glassy brine. 
The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift, 
And the pearl shells spangle the flinty snow ; 



From coral rocks the sea plants lift 
Their boughs, where the tides and billows- 
flow ; 
The water is calm and still below, 
For the wind and waves are absent there, 
And the sands are bright, as the stars that , 

glow 
In the motionless fields of upper air. 
There, with its waving blade of green, 
The sea flag streams through the silent water,. 
And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen 



OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE. 



679 



To blush, like a banner bathed in slaughter. 
There, with a light and easy motion, [sea ; 
The fan-coral sweeps through the clear deep 
And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean 
Are bending like corn on the upland lea 
And life, in rare and beautiful forms, 
Is sporting amid those bowers of stone, 
And is safe when the wrathful spirit of 

storms 
Has made the top of the wave his own. 



And when the ship from his fury flies, 
Where the myriad voices of ocean roar, 
When the wind-god frowns in the murky 

skies, [shore, 

And demons are waiting the wreck on 
Then, far below, in the peaceful sea, 
The purple mullet and gold fish rove, 
Where the waters murmur tranquilly, 
Through the bending twigs of the coral 

grove. 



LAW. 



JAMES BEATTIE. 




AWS, as we read in ancient sages, 
| Have been like cobwebs in all ages. 
Cobwebs for little flies are spread, 
And laws for little folks are made ; 



But if an insect of renown, 
Hornet or beetle, wasp or drone, 
Be caught in quest of sport or plunder, 
The flimsy fetter flies in sunder. 



OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE. 




WILL. M. CARLETON. 



VER the hill to the poor-house I'm 

trudgin' my weary way — 
I, a woman of seventy, and only a 

trifle gray— 
I, who am smart an' chipper, for all 

the years I've told, 
As many another woman, that's only 

half as old. 



Over the hill to the poor-house — I can't make 

it quite clear ! 
Over the hill to the poor-house — it seems so 

horrid queer ! 
Many a step I've taken a-toilin' to and fro, 
But this is a sort of journey I never thought 

to go. 

What is the use of heapin' on me a pauper's 

shame ? 
Am I lazy or crazy ? am I blind or lame ? 
True, I am not so supple, nor yet so awful 

stout, 



But charity ain't no favor, if one can live 
without. 

I am willin' and anxious an' ready any day, 
To work for a decent livm', an' pay my 

honest way ; 
For I can earn my victuals, an' more too, I'll 

be bound, 
If any body only is willin' to have me round. 

Once I was young andhan'some — I was 

upon my soul — 
Once my cheeks was roses, my eyes as black 

as coal ; 
And I can't remember, in them days, of 

hearin' people say, 
For any kind of reason, that I was in their 

way, 

'Taint no use of boastin', or talkin' over 

free, 
But many a house an' home was open then to 

me ; 



680 



OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE. 



Many a han'some offer I had from likely 

men, 
And nobody ever hinted that I was a burden 

then. 

And when to John I was married, sure he 

was good and smart, 
But he and all the neighbors would own I 

done my part : 
For life was all before me, an' I was young 

an' strong. 
And I worked the best that I could in trym' 

to get along. 



And when, exceptin' Charley, they'd left us 

there alone ; 
When John he nearer an' nearer come, ari 

dearer seemed to be, 
The Lord of Hosts he come one day an' took 

him away from me. 

Still I was bound to struggle, an' never to 

cringe or fall — 
Still I worked for Charlie, for Charlie was 

now my all ; 
And Charlie was pretty good to me, with 

scarce a word or frown, 







And so we worked together : and life was 

hard but gay, 
With now and then a baby, for to cheer us 

on our way ; 
Till we had half a dozen, an' all growed 

clean an' neat, 
An went to school like others, an' had 

enough to eat. 

So we worked for the childr'n, and raised 

'em every one ; 
Worked for 'em summer and winter, just as 

we ought to 've done ; 
Only perhaps we humored 'em, which some 

good folks condemn, 
But every couple's child'rn's a heap the best 

to them. 

Strange how much we think of our blessed 

little ones ? — 
I'd have died for my daughters, I'd have 

died for my sons ; 
And God he made that rule of love ; but 

when we're old and gray, 
I've noticed it sometimes somehow fails to 

work the other way. 

Strange, another thing: when our boys an' 
girls was grown, 



Till at last he went a courtin', and brought 
a wife from town. 

She was somewhat dressy, an' hadn't a pleas- 
ant smile — 

She was quite conceity, and carried a heap 
o' style; 

But if ever I tried to be friends, I did with 
her, I know; 

But she was hard and proud, an' I couldn't 
make it go. 

She had an edication, an' that was good for 
her; 

But when she twitted me on mine 'twas car- 
ryin' things too fur ; 

An' I told her once 'fore company (an it al- 
most made her sick), 

That I never swallowed a grammar, or 'et a 
'rithmatic. 

So 'twas only a few days before the thing 

was done — 
They was a family of themselves, and I 

another one; 
And a very little cottage for one family will 

do, 
But I have never seen a house that was big 

enough for two. 



OVER THE HILLS FROM THE POOR-HOUSE. 



681 



An' I never could speak to suit her, never 

could please her eye, 
An' it made me independent, an' then I 

didn't try ; 
But I was terribly staggered, an' felt it like 

a blow, 
When Charlie turned ag'in me, an' told me I 

could go. 

I went to live with Susan, but Susan's house 

was small, 
And she was always a-hintin' how snug it 

was for us all ; 
And what with her husband's sisters, and 

what with her childr'n three, 
'Twas easy to discover that there wasn't 

room for me. 

An' then I went to Thomas, the oldest son 

I've got, 
For Thomas' buildmgs'd cover the half of an 

acre lot ; 
But all the childr'n was on me — I couldn't 

stand their sauce — 
And Thomas said I needn't think I was 

comin' there to boss. 



An' then, I wrote to Rebecca, — my girl who 

lives out West, 
And to Isaac, not far from her — some twenty 

miles at best ; 
An' one of 'em said 'twas too warm there, 

for any one so old, 
And t'other had an opinion the climate was 

too cold, 

So they have shirked and slighted me, an' 

shifted me about — 
So they have well nigh soured me, an' worn 

my old heart out ; 
But still I've born up pretty well, an' wasn't 

much put down, 
Till Charlie went to the poor-master, an' put. 

me on the town. 

Over the hill to the poor-house — my childr'n 

dear, good-bye ! 
Many a night I've watched you when only 

God was nigh ; 
And God'll judge between us; but I will 

al'ays pray 
That you shall never suffer the half I do^ 

to-day. 



OVER TEE EILLS FROM TEE POOR-EOTJSE. 



MAY MIGNONETTE. 



^^MVER the hills to the poor-house sad 
jl|||Ig paths have been made to-day, 

For sorrow is near, such as maketh 
the heads of the young turn 
gray, 

f Causing the heart of the careless to 
| throb with a fevered breath — 

The sorrow that leads to the chamber whose 
light has gone out in death, 

To Susan, Rebecca and Isaac, to Thomas and 

Charley, word sped 
That mother was ill and fast failing, perhaps 

when they heard might be dead ; 
But e'en while they wrote she was praying 

that some of her children might come, 



To hear from her lips their last blessing before 
she should start for her home 

To Susan, poor Susan ! how bitter the agony 

brought by the call, 
For deep in her heart for her mother wide 

rooms had been left after all ; 
And now, that she thought, by her fireside 

one place had been vacant for years, — 
And while "o'er the hills "she was speeding 

her path might be traced by her tears. 

Rebecca ! she heard not the tidings, but those 

who bent over her knew 
That led by the Angel of Death, near the 

waves of tho river she drew: 



682 



A PRAYER FOR MY LITTLE ONE. 



Delirious, ever she told them her mother was 
cooling her head, 

While, weeping, they thought that ere morn- 
ing both mother and child might be 
dead, 

And, kneeling beside her, stern Isaac was 

quiv'ring in aspen-like grief, 
"While waves of sad mem'ry surged o'er him 

like billows of wind o'er the leaf; 
" Too late," were the words that had humbled 

his cold, haughty pride to the dust, 
And Peace, with her olive-boughs laden, 

crowned loving forgiveness with trust. 

Bowed over his letters and papers, sat 

Thomas, his brow lined by thought, 
But little he heeded the markets or news of 

his gains that they brought ; 
His lips grew as pale as his cheek, but new 

purpose seemed born in his eye, 
And Thomas went " over the hills." to the 

mother that shortly must die. 

To Charley, her youngest, her pride, came the 

mother's message that morn, 
And he was away "o'er the hills" ere the 

sunlight blushed over the corn ; 
And, strangest of all, by his side, was the 

wife he had " brought from the town," 
And silently wept, while her tears strung 

with diamonds her plain mourning 

gown. 

.For each had been thinking, of late, how 

they missed the old mother's sweet 

smile, 
And wond'ring how they could have been so 

blind and unjust all that while ; 
They thought of their harsh, cruel words, 

and longed to atone for the past, 



When swift o'er the heart of vain dreams 
swept the presence of death's chilling 



blast. 



So 



into the chamber of death, one by one, 

these sad children had crept, 
As they, in their childhood, had done, when 

mother was tired and slept, — 
And peace, rich as then, came to each, as 

they drank in her blessing, so deep, 
That, breathing into her life, she fell back in 

her last blessed sleep. 

And when " o'er the hills from the poor- 
house,'' that mother is tenderly borne, 

The life of her life, her loved children, tread 
softly, and silently mourn, 

For theirs is no rivulet sorrow, but deep as 
the ocean is deep, 

And into our lives, with sweet healing, the 
balm of their bruising may creep s 

For swift come the flashings of temper, and 

torrents of words come as swift, 
Till out 'mong the tide-waves of anger, how 

often we thoughtlessly drift ! 
And heads that are gray with life's ashes, 

and feet that walk down 'mong the 

dead, 
We send " o'er the hills to the poor-house " 

for love, and, it may be, for bread. 

Oh ! when shall we value the living while 

yet the keen sickle is stayed, 
Nor slight the wild flower in its blooming, 

till all its sweet life is decayed ? 
Yet often the fragrance is richest, when 

poured from the bruised blossom's soul, 
And " over .the hills from the poor-house * 

the rarest of melodies roll. 



A PEA YEE FOE MY LITTLE ONE. 



EDGAR FAWCETT. 



[OD bless my little one ! How fair 

The mellow lamp-light gilds his 
hair, 
Loose on the cradle-pillow there. 
God bless my little one ! 



God guard my little one ! To me 
Life, widowed of his life would be 
As sea-sands widowed of the sea. 
God guard my little one ! 



LOSS OF THE ARCTIC. 



683 



God love my little one ! As clear 


When these fond lips are mute, and when 


Cool sunshine holds the first green spear 


I slumber, not to wake again, 


On April meadows, hold him dear. 


God bless — God guard — God love him then 


God love my little one! 


My little one ! Amen 




LOSS OF THE ARCTIC. 



HENRY WARD BEECHER. 



jT was autumn. Hundreds had wended their way from pilgrimages ; 
from Rome and its treasures of dead art, and its glory of living 
nature; from the sides of the Switzer's mountains, and from the 
capitals of various nations, — all of them saying in their hearts, we 
will wait for the September gales to have done with their equinoctial 
fury, and then we will embark ; we will slide across the appeased 



G84 LOSS OF THE ARCTIC 



ocean, and in the gorgeous month of October we will greet our longed-for 
native land, and our heart-loved homes. 

And so the throng streamed along from Berlin, from Paris, from the 
Orient, converging upon London, still hastening toward the welcome ship, 
and narrowing every day the circle of engagements and preparations. 
They crowded aboard. Never had the Arctic borne such a host of pas- 
sengers, nor passengers so nearly related to so many of us. The hour was 
come. The signal-ball fell at Greenwich. It was noon also at Liverpool. 
The anchors were weighed; the great hull swayed to the current; the 
national colors streamed abroad, as if themselves instinct with life and 
national sympathy. The bell strikes ; the wheels revolve ; the signal-gun 
beats its echoes in upon every structure along the shore, and the Arctic 
glides joyfully forth from the Mersey, and turns her prow to the winding 
channel, and begins her homeward run. The pilot stood at the wheel, 
and men saw him. Death sat upon the prow, and no eye beheld him. 
Whoever stood at the wheel in all the voyage, Death was the pilot that 
steered the craft, and none knew it. He neither revealed his presence nor 
whispered his errand. 

And so hope was effulgent, and lithe gayety disported itself, and joy 
was with every guest. Amid all the inconveniences of the voyage, there 
was still that which hushed every murmur, — "Home is not far away." 
And every morning it was still one night nearer home ! Eight days had 
passed. They beheld that distant bank of mist that forever haunts the 
vast shallows of Newfoundland. Boldly they made it; and plunging in, 
its pliant wreaths wrapped them about. They shall never emerge. The 
last sunlight has flashed from that deck. The last voyage is done to ship 
and passengers. At noon there came noiselessly stealing from the north 
that fated instrument of destruction. In that mysterious' shroud, that 
vast atmosphere of mist, both steamers were holding their way with rush- 
ing prow and roaring wheels, but invisible. 

At a leagues distance, unconscious; and at nearer approach, un- 
warned ; within hail, and bearing right toward each other, unseen, unfelt, 
till in a moment more, emerging from the gray mists, the ill-omened Vesta 
dealt her deadly stroke to the Arctic. The death-blow was scarcely felt 
along the mighty hull. She neither reeled nor shivered. Neither com- 
mander nor officers deemed that they had suffered harm. Prompt upon 
humanity, the brave Luce (let his name be ever spoken with admiration 
and respect) ordered away his boat with the first officer to inquire if the 
stranger had suffered harm. As Gourley went over the ship's side, oh, 
that some good angel had called to the brave commander in the words of 



DOROTHY SULLIVAN. 



685 



Paul on a like occasion, " Except these abide in the ship, ye cannot be 
saved." 

They departed, and with them the hope of the ship, for now the waters 
gaining upon the hold, and rising upon the fires, revealed the mortal blow. 
Oh, had now that stern, brave mate, Gourley, been on deck, whom the 
sailors were wont to mind, — had he stood to execute sufficiently the com- 
mander's will, — we may believe that we should not have had to blush for 
the cowardice and recreancy of the crew, nor weep for the untimely dead. 
But, apparently, each subordinate officer lost all presence of mind, then 
courage, and so honor. In a wild scramble, that ignoble mob of firemen, 
engineers, waiters, and crew, rushed for the boats, and abandoned the 
helpless women, children, and men, to the mercy of the deep ! Four hours 
there were from the catastrophe of collision to the catastrophe of sinking ! 
Oh, what a burial w T as here! Not as when one is borne from his home, 
among weeping throngs, and gently carried to the green fields, and laid 
peacefully beneath the turf and flowers. No priest stood to pronounce a 
burial-service. It was an ocean grave. The mists alone shrouded the 
burial-place. No spade prepared the grave, nor sexton filled up the hol- 
lowed earth. Down, down they sank, and the quick returning waters 
smoothed out every ripple, and left the sea as if it had not been. 




DOROTHY SULLIVAN. 



[H ! a wedding ring's pretty to wear, 
And a bride of all women is fair, 
But then there's no trusting 

in men ; 
And if I were a girl I'd have 

lovers beware, 
They may court you to-day, 
sweet as birds in the May, 
But to-morrow look out they'll be all flown 

away.'' 
Old Dolly Sullivan shook her gray head, 
Lovers were now the last thing she need 

dread. 
But you never can tell who has once been a 

belle. 
" Sweethearts ! I've had 'em ! I know 'em !" 
she said. 

" Just as long as your company's new, 
There is no one that's equal to you. 



You then can have choice of the men, 

It's the black eyes to-day and to-morrow the 

blue. 
I once had a brocade for my wedding gown 

made, 
On the shelf of the store-room my wedding 

cake laid, 
Never that cake on the table was set, 
Here I am, Dorothy Sullivan yet, 
Let it go ! Let it go ! I am glad it was so ; 
Hardly earned lessons we're slow to forget. 

" Could I keep all now that I know 

"With the face that I had long ago, 

Ah ! then I would pay back the men ; 

I would a small part of the debt that I owe, 

For 't is little care they, spite the fine things 

they say, 
How a woman's heart aches, if they have 

their own way. 



686 



THE EXECUTION OF MADAME ROLAND. 



Promises ! little they keep men in awe 
Trust 'em ! I'd sooner trust snow in a thaw, 
For they're easy to make ; and more easy to 

break. 
Keep'in 'em's something that never I saw. 

" When you come to your own wedding 

morn, 
Just to find you're a maid left forlorn, 
Ah ! then, where's your faith in the men ! 



When your wedding gown's on ; and your 

bridegroom is gone, 
You must take off that gown, and sit quietly 

down." 
Old Dolly Sullivan shooli her gray head. 
" Children once burnt of the fire have a dread, 
Let your love stories be when you're talking 

to me, 
Sweethearts ! I've had 'em, I know 'em," she 

said. 



THE EXECUTION OF MADAME ROLAND. 



LAMARTINE, 



^^Wk ^■•^ &°^ n & ^° ^ ne guillotine," replied Madame Koland; "a few 
§lg moments and I shall be there ; but those who send me thither 

fwill follow me ere long. I go innocent, but they will come 
stained with blood, and you who applaud our execution will then 
J applaud theirs with equal zeal." Sometimes she would turn away 
I her head that she might not appear to hear the insults with which 
she was assailed, and would lean with almost 'filial tenderness over the 
aged partner of her execution. The poor old man wept bitterly, and she 
kindly and cheering] y encouraged him to bear up with firmness, and to 
suffer with resignation. She even tried to enliven the dreary journey they 
were performing together by little attempts at cheerfulness, and at length 
succeeded in winning a smile from her fellow-sufferer. 

A colossal statue of liberty, composed of clay, like the liberty of the 
time, then stood in the middle of the Place de la Concorde, on the spot 
now occupied by the Obelisk ; the scaffold was erected beside his statue. 
Upon arriving there, Madame Roland descended from the cart in which 
she had been conveyed. Just as the executioner had seized her arm to 
enable her to be the first to mount to the guillotine, she displayed an in- 
stance of that noble and tender consideration for others, which only a 
woman's heart could conceive, or put into practice at such a moment. 
" Stay ! " said she, momentarily resisting the man's grasp. " I have only 
one favor to ask, and that is not for myself; I beseech you grant it me." 
Then, turning to the old man, she said, " Do you precede me to the scaf- 
fold ; to see my blood flow would be making you suffer the bitterness of 
death twice over. I must spare you the pain of witnessing my punish- 
ment." The executioner allowed this arrangement to be made. 



THE BALD-HEADED TYRANT. 



687 



With what sensibility and firmness must the mind have been imbued 
which could, at such a time, forget its own sufferings, to think only of 
saving one pang to an unknown old man ! and how clearly does this one 
little trait attest the heroic calmness with which this celebrated woman met 
her death ! After the execution of Lamarche, which she witnessed with- 
out changing color, Madame Eoland stepped lightly up to the scaffold, and, 
bowing before the statue of Liberty, as though to do homage to a power far 
whom she was about to die, exclaimed, " Liberty ! Liberty ! how many 
crimes are committed in thy name ! " She then resigned herself to the 
hands of the executioner, and in a few seconds her head fell into the basket 
placed to receive it. 



THE BALD-HEADED TYRANT. 



MARY E. VANDYKE. 



f$|l||f>H ! the quietest home on earth had I, 
$1||«k No thought of trouble, no hint of 
care ; 
Like a dream of pleasure the days 
fled by, 
X And Peace had folded her pinions 
there. 
But one day there joined in our house- 
hold band 
A bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land. 

Oh, the despot came in the dead of night, 
And no one ventured to ask him why ; 

Like slaves we trembled before his might, 
Our hearts stood still when we heard him 
cry; 

For never a soul could his power withstand, 

That bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land. 

He ordered us here, and he sent us there — 
Though never a word could his small lips 



With his toothless gums and his vacant stare, 

And his helpless limbs so frail and weak, 
Till I cried, in a voice of stern command, 
"Go up, thou bald-head from No-man's-land." 

But his abject slaves they turned on me: 
Like the bears in Scripture, tney'd rend me 
there, 



The while they worshiped with bended knee 
The ruthless wretch with the missing hair , 
For he rules them all with relentless hand, 
This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land. 




Then I searched for help in every clime, 
For Peace had fled from my dwelling now 

Till I finally thought of old Father Time, 
And low before him I made my bow. 

"Wilt thou deliver me out of his hand, 

This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's- 
land." 

Old Time he looked with a puzzled stare, 
And a smile came over his features grim. 

I'll take the tyrant under my care: 

Watch what my hour-glass does to him. 

The veriest humbug that ever was planned. 

Is this same bald-head from No-man's-land. 



688 



THE GAMBLER'S WIFE. 



Old Time is doing his work full well — 

Much less of might does the tyrant wield; 
But, ah ! with sorrow my heart will swell 

And sad tears fall as I see him yield. 
Could I stay the touch of that shriveled 

hand 
I would keep the bald-head from No-man's- 
land. 



For the loss of peace I have ceased to care ; 

Like other vassals, I've learned, forsooth, 
To love the wretch who forgot his hair, 

And hurried along without a tooth. 
And he rules me, too, with his tiny hand, 
This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's 
land. 



THE GAMBLEES WIER 



REYNELL COATES. 




ARK is the night ! How dark ! No 
light : no fire ! 
Cold, on the hearth, the last faint 
sparks expire ! 
Shivering, she watches by the cradle- 
side, 
For him, who pledged her love — last year 
a bride ! 

45 Hark ! 't is his footstep ! No ! 't is past !- 

't is gone!" 
Tick ! — tick ! — " How wearily the time crawls 

on ! 
Why should he leave me thus? — He once 

was kind ! 
And I believed 't would last ! — How mad ! — 

How blind ! 

" Rest thee, my babe ! — Rest on ! — Tis hun- 



ger s cry 



Sleep ! — for there is no food ! — the fount is dry ! 
Famine and cold their wearying work have 

done. 
My heart must break ! And thou !" The 

clock strikes one. 

*' Hush! 't is the dice-box! Yes ! he's there! 

he's there ! 
For this ! — for this he leaves me to despair ! 
Leaves love ! leaves truth ! his wife ! hi i 

child ! for what ? 
The wanton's smile — the villain — and the 

sot! 

*' Yet ['11 not curse him. No ! 't is all in 
vain! 



'T is long to wait, but sure he'll come again! 
And I could starve, and bless him, but for you, 
My child ! his child ! Oh, fiend!" The clock 
strikes two. 

"Hark! how the signboard creaks! The 

blast howls by. 
Moan ! Moan ! a dirge swells through the 

cloudy sky ! 
Ha ! 't is his knock ! he comes ! he comes 

once more !" 
'Tis but the lattice flaps ! Thy hope is o'er ! 

" Can he desert us thus ? He knows I stay, 
Night after night, in loneliness, to pray 
For his return — and yet he sees no tear ! 
No ! no ! it cannot be ! He will be here ! 

"Nestle more closely, dear one, to my heart! 
Thou'rt cold ! thou'rt freezing ! But we will 

not part ! 
Husband ! — I die ! — Father ! — It is not he ! 
God ! protect my child !" The clock strikes 

three. 

They're gone, they're gone ! the glimmering 

spark hath fled ! 
The wife and child are numbered with the 

dead, 
On the cold hearth, outstretched in solemn 

rest. 
The babe lay, frozen on its mother's breast : 
The gambler came at last — but all was o'er — 
Dread silence reigned around: — the clock 

struck four 1 



WHERE SHALL THE BABY'S DIMPLE BE ? 



689 



TO A FRIEND IN AFFLICTION 



WILLIAM MUNFORD. 



f'^W® KNOW in grief like yours how more 
Jy§ than vain 

Mp| All comfort to the stricken heart 
<§m appears ; 

$ And as the bursting cloud must spend 
J» its rain, 

So grief its tears. 

I know that when your little darling's 
form 
Had freed the angel spirit fettered there, 
You could not pierce beyond the breaking 
storm, 

In your despair. 

You could not see the tender hand that 
caught 
Your little lamb, to shield him from all 
harm ; 
Yoa missed him from your own, but never 
thought 

Of Jesus' arm! « 

You only knew those precious eyes were 
dim; 
You only felt those tiny lips were cold ; 
You only clung to what remained of him 
Beneath the mould. 

But oh ! young mother, look ! the gate un- 
bars ! 



And through the darkness, smiling from 
the skies, 
Are beaming on you, brighter than those 
stars, 

Your darling's eyes. 

Tis said that when the pastures down among 
The Alpine hills have ceased to feed the 
flocks, 
And they must mount to where the grass is 
young- 
Far up the rocks, 

The shepherd takes a little lamb at play, 

And lifts him gently to his careful breast, 
And, with its tender bleating, leads the way 
For all the rest ; 

That quick the mother follows in the path, 
Then others go, like men whose faith gives 
hopes, 
And soon the shepherd gathers all he 
hath — 

Far up the slopes. 

And on those everlasting hills He feeds 
The trusting fold in green that never 
palls ; 
Look up ! see ! your little darling leads, — 
The Shepherd calls ! 



WHERE SHALL THE BABY'S DIMPLE BE? 




J. G. HOLLAND. 



VER the cradle the mother hung, 
Softly cooing a slumber song, 
And these were the simple words 
she sung 
All the evening long : 

"Cheek or chin, or knuckle or knee, 
Where shall the baby's dimple be? 
44 



Where shall the angel's finger rest 
When he comes down to the baby's nest? 
Where shall the angel's touch remain 
When he awakens my baby again ? 
Still she bent and sang so low 

A murmur into her music broke, 
And she paused to hear, for she could but 
know 



690 



DEFENCE OF FRA DEL TOR. 



The baby's angel spoke: 


And then by her baby's side she knelt 


"Cheek or chin, or knuckle or knee, 


And sang with pleasant voice : 


Where shall the. baby's dimple be ? 




Where shall my finger fall and rest 


" Not on the limb, angel dear! 


When I come down to the baby's nest? 


For the charms with its youth will dis- 


Where shall my finger's touch remain 


appear ; 


When I wake your babe again?" 


Not on the cheek shall the dimple be, 




For the harboring smile will fade and flee ; 


Silent the mother sat and dwelt 


But touch thou the chin with impress deep, 


Long on the sweet delay of choice, 


And my baby the angel's seal shall keep." 



DEFENCE OF PRA DEL TOR. 



J. A. WYLIE. 




'EGOTIATIONS had been opened between the men of the Valleys and 
the Duke of Savoy, and as they were proceeding satisfactorily, the 
Vaudois were without suspicions of evil. This was the moment 
that La Trinita chose to attack them. He hastily assembled his 
troops, and on the night of the 16th of April he marched them 
against the Pra del Tor, hoping to enter it unopposed, and give 
the Vaudois " as sheep to the slaughter." 

The snows around the Pra were beginning to burn in the light of the 
morning when the attention of the people, who had just ended their united 
worship, was attracted by unusual sounds which were heard to issue from 
the gorge that led into the valley. On the instant six brave mountaineers 
rushed to the gateway that opens from the gorge. The long file of La 
Trinita's soldiers was seen advancing two abreast, their helmets and cuiras- 
ses glittering in the light. The six Vaudois made their arrangements, and 
calmly waited till the enemy was near. The first two Vaudois, holding- 
loaded muskets, knelt down. The second two stood erect ready to fire 
over the heads of the first two. The third two undertook the loading of 
the weapons as they were discharged. The invaders came on. As the 
first two of the enemy turned the rock they were shot down by the two 
foremost Vaudois. The next two of the attacking force fell in like manner 
by the shot of the Vaudois in the rear. The third rank of the enemy pre- 
sented themselves only to be laid by the side of their comrades. In a few 
minutes a little heap of dead bodies blocked the pass, rendering impossible 
the advance of the accumulating file of the enemy in the chasm. 

keanwhile, other Vaudois climbed the mountains that overhung the 



DEFENCE OF PRA DEL TOR. 



691 



gorge in which the Piedmontese army was imprisoned. Tearing up the 
great stones with which the hill-side was strewn, the Vaudois sent them 




rolling down upon the host. Unable to advance from the wall of dead in 
front, and unable to flee from the ever accumulating masses behind, the 



692 



THE CHILDREN'S CHURCH. 



soldiers were crushed in dozens by the falling rocks. Panic set in ; and 
famine in such a position was dreadful. Wedged together on the narrow 
ledge, with a murderous rain of rocks falling on them, their struggles to 
escape was frightful. They jostled one another, and trod each other under 
foot, while vast numbers fell over the precipice, and were dashed on the 
rocks or drowned in the torrent. 

When those at the entrance of the valley who were watching the result 
saw the crystal of the Angrogna begin about midday to be changed into 
blood, "Ah!" said they, "the Pra del Tor has been taken; La Trinita 
has triumphed; then flows the blood of the Vaudois." And, indeed, the 
Count on beginning his march that morning is said to have boasted that 
by noon the torrent of the Angrogna would be seen to change color ; and 
so in truth it did. Instead of a pellucid stream, rolling along on a white 
gravelly bed, which is its usual appearance at the mouth of the valley, it 
was now deeply dyed from recent slaughter. But when the few who had 
escaped the catastrophe returned to tell what had that day passed within 
the denies of the Angrogna, it was seen that it was not the blood of the 
"Vaudois, but the blood of the ruthless invaders, which dyed the waters of 
the Angrogna. The Count withdrew on that same night, to return no 
more to the Valley. 



THE CHILDREN'S CHURCH. 




TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF PAUL GEROT. 



IHE bells of the church are ringing, 
' Papa and mamma are both gone ; 
And three little children sit singing 
Together this still Sunday morn. 

While the bells toll away in the steeple, 
Though too small to sit still id a pew, 

These busy, religious small people 
Determined to have their church too. 

So as free as the birds or the breezes 
By which their fair ringlets are fanned, 

Each rogue sings away as he pleases, 
With book upside-down in his hand. 

Their hymn has no sense in its letter, 
Their music no rythm nor tune ; 

Our worship perhaps may be better, 
But theirs reaches God quite as soon. 



Their angels stand close to the Father, 
His Heaven is made bright by these 
flowers ; 

And the dear God above us would rather 
Hear praise from their lips than from ours. 

Sing on, little children, your voices 

Fill the air with contentment and love ; 

All nature around you rejoices 

And the birds warble sweetly above. 

Sina; on, for the proudest orations, 

The liturgies sacred and long, 
The anthems and worship of nations 

Are poor, to your innocent song. 

Sing on: our devotion is colder, 

Though wisely our prayers may be planned. 
For often we, too, who are older, 

Hold our book the wrong way in our hand. 



THE CHAMBER OVER THE GATE. 



G93 



Sing on : our harmonic inventions 
We study with labor and pain ; 

Yet often our angry contentions 

Take the harmony out of our strain. 



Sing on : all our struggle and battle, 
Our cry, when most deep and sincere- 

What are they ? a child's simple prattle, 
A breath on the Infinite ear. 



THE CHAMBER OVER THE GATE. 



H. W. LONGFELLOW. 



j)S it so far from thee 

Thou canst no longer see, 

In the Chamber over the Gate, 




That old man desolate, 
Weeping and wailing sore 
For his son, who is no more ? 
Absalom, my son. 

Is it so long ago 

That cry of human woe 

From the walled city came, 
Calling on his dear name, 

That it has died away 

In the distance of to-day? 
Absalom, my son ! 

There is no far or near, 
There is neither there' nor here, 
There is neither soon nor late, 
In that Chamber over the Gate, 



Nor any long ago 
To that cry of human woe, 
Absalom, my son ! 

From the ages that are past 
The voice sounds like a blast, 
Over seas that wreck and drown, 
Over tumult of traffic and town, 
And for ages yet to be 
Come the echoes back to me, 
Absalom, my son ! 

Somewhere, at every hour, 

The watchman on the tower 
Looks forth, and sees the fleet 
Approach of the hurrying feet 

Of messengers, that bear 

The tidings of despair. 
Absalom, my son ! 

Hq goes forth from the door, 
Who shall return no more. 

With him our joy departs; 

The light goes out in our hearts ; 
In the Chamber over the Gate 
We sit disconsolate. 

Absalom, my son ! 

That 'tis a common grief 
Bringeth but slight relief; 
Ours is the bitterest loss, 
Ours is the heaviest cross ; 
And forever that cry will be, 
" Would God I had died for thee, 
Absalom, my son ! " 



694 



THE EGGS AND THE HORSES; 



GOD IN THE SEAS. 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 




: /. llftflijHESE restless surges eat away the 

shores [plain 

^W Of earth's old continents ; the fertile 




"Welters in shallows, headlands crumble down, 



And the tide drifts the sea-sand in the streets 
Of the drowned city. Thou, meanwhile, 

afar 
In the green chambers of the middle sea, 
Where broadest spread the waters and the 

line 
Sinks deepest, while no eye beholds thy 

work, 
Creator I thou dost teach the coral worm 
To lay his mighty reefs. From age to age, 
He builds beneath the waters, till, at last, 
His bulwarks overtop the brine, and check 
The long wave rolling from the southern 

pole 
To break upon Japan. 



THE EGGS AND THE HORSES. 



A MATRIMONIAL EPIC. 




|OHN Dobbins was so captivated 

By Mary Trueman's fortune, face 
and cap, 
(With near two thousand pounds the 
hook was baited,) 
That in he popped to matrimony's 
trap. 



One small ingredient towards happiness, 
It seems, ne'er occupied a single thought; 

For his accomplished bride 

Appearing well supplied 
With the three charms of riches, beauty, 



He did not, as he ought, 
Think of aught else ; so no inquiry made he 
As to the temper of the lady. 

And here was certainly a great omission ; 
None should accent of Hymen's gentle fet- 
ter, 
" For worse or better/' 



Whatever be their prospect or condition, 

Without acquaintance with each other' a 

nature ; 
For many a mild and gentle creature 
Of charming disposition, 

Alas ! by thoughtless marriage has de- 
stroyed it. 
So take advice ; let girls dress e'er so 

tastily, 
Don't enter into wedlock hastily 
Unless you can't avoid it. 

Week followed week, and, it must be confest, 
The bridegroom and the bride had both been 

blest : 
Month after month had languidly transpired. 
Both parties became tired : 
Year after year dragged on ; 
Their happiness was gone. 

Ah ! foolish pair ! 
" Bear and forbear." 



THE EGGS AND THE HORSES. 



695 



Should be the rule for married folks to take, 
But blind mankind (poor discontented 
elves !) 

Too often make 

The misery of themselves. 

At length the hasband said " This will not do ! 

Mary, I never will be ruled by you : 

So, wife, d'ye see ? 

To live together as we can't agree, 

Suppose we part!" 

With woman's pride, 

Mary replied, 

"With all my heart!" 

John Dobbins then to Mary's father goes 
And gives the list of his imagined woes. 
" Dear son-in-law ! '' the father said, " I see 
All is quite true that you've been telling me ; 
Yet there in marriage is such strange fatality, 
That when as much of life 

You will have seen 

As it has been 
My lot to see, I think you'll own your wife 

As good or better than the generality. 

■" An interest m your case I really take, 
And therefore gladly this agreement make: 
An hundred eggs within this basket lie, 
With which your luck to-morrow you shall 

try; 
Also my five best horses with my cart ; 
And from the farm at dawn you shall depart. 
All round the country go, 

And be particular, I beg ; 
Where husbands rule, a horse bestow, 

But where the wives, an egg. 
And if the horses go before the eggs, 
I'll ease you of your wife, — I will— I fegs ! " 

Away the married man departed, 

Brisk and light-hearted ; 

!Not doubting that, of course, 

The first five houses each would take a horse. 

At the first house he knocked, 

He felt a little shocked 

To hear a female voice, with angry roar, 
.Scream out, — Hullo ! 
Who's there below ? 

Why, husband, are you deaf ? Go to the 
door. 



See who it is, I beg." 

Our poor friend John 

Trudged quickly on, 
But first laid at the door an egg. 

I will not, all his journey through, 
The discontented traveler pursue ; 

Suffice it here to say 
That when his first day's task was nearly 

done, 
He'd seen an hundred husbands, minus one, 
And eggs just ninety-nine had given away. 
" Ha, here's a house where he I seek must 

dwell," 
At length cried John ; " I'll go and ring the 
bell." 

The servant came, — John asked him, " Pray, 
Friend, is your master in the way ? " 
" No," said the man, with smiling phiz, 
" My master is not, but my mistress is ; 
Walk in that parlor, sir, my lady's in it: 
Master will be himself therein a minute/' 
The lady said her husband then was dressing. 
And, if his business was not very pressing, 

She would prefer that he should, wait until 
His toilet was completed ; 
Adding, " Pray, sir, be seated." 

" Madam, I will," 
Said John, with great politeness ; "but I own 
That you alone 

Can tell me all I wish to know ; 
Will you do so ? 
Pardon my rudeness. 
And just have the goodness 
(A wager to decide) to tell me — do — 
Who governs in this house, — your spouse or 

you? " 
" Sir," said the lady with a doubting nod, 
" Your question's very odd ; 
But as I think none ought to be 
Ashamed to do their duty (do you see ?) 
On that account I scruple not to say 
It always is my pleasure to obey. 
But here's my husband (always sad without 

me) ; 
Take not my word, but ask him, if you 
doubt me." 

" Sir," said the husband " it is most true ; 
I promise you, 



696 



RAMBLINGS IN GREECE. 



A more obedient, kind, and gentle woman 
Does not exist." 
" Give me your fist," 

Said John, and, as the case is something 
more than common, 
Allow me to present you with a beast 
Worth fifty guineas at the very least. 

" There's Smiler, Sir, a beauty, you must own, 

There's Prince that handsome black, 
Ball the gray mare, and Saladin the roan, 

Beside old Dun ; 

Come, Sir, choose one ; 

But take advice from me, 

Let Prince be he ; 
Why, Sir, you'll look the hero on his back." 

" I'll take the black, and thank you, too," 
" Nay, husband, that will never do ; 
You know you've often heard me say 
How much I long to have a gray ; 



And this one will exactly do for me." 

" No, no," said he, 

" Friend, take the four others back, 

And only leave the black." 

" Nay, husband, I declare 

I must have the gray mare :" 

Adding (with gentle force), 

" The gray mare is, I'm sure, the better horse " , 

" Well, if it must be so, — good Sir, 

The gray mare we prefer ; 

So we accept your gift." John made a feg: 

" Allow me to present you with an egg ; 

'Tis my last egg remaining, 

The cause of my regaining, 

I trust the fond affection of my wife, 

Whom I will love the better of my life. 

"Home to content has her kind father 

brought me ; 
I thank him for the lesson he nas taught me." 




RAMBLINGS IN GREECE. 



ROSSITER W. RAYMOND. 



JN Psestum's ancient fanes I trod, 

And mused on those strange men of old, 
Whose dark religion could unfold 
So many gods, and yet no God. 



Did they to human feelings own, 
And had they human souls indeed? 
Or did the sternness of their creed 
Frown their faint spirits into stone? 



OUT OF THE OLD HOUSE, NANCY. 



697 



The southern breezes fan my face ; — 
I hear the hum of bees arise, 

And lizards dart, with mystic eyes 
That shrine the secret of the place ! 



These silent columns speak of dread ; 

Of lonely worship without love; 
And yet the warm, deep heaven above 

Whispers a softer tale instead ! 



THE BEAUTY OF YOUTH. 



THEODORE PARKER. 




pW beautiful is youth, — early manhood, early womanhood, — how 
wonderfully fair ! What freshness of life, cleanness of blood, purity 
of breath ! What hopes ! There is nothing too much for the young 
maid or man to put into their dream, and in their prayer to hope 
to put in their day. young men and women ! there is no picture 
of ideal excellence of manhood and womanhood that I ever draw 
that seems too high, too beautiful for young hearts. 

I love to look on these young faces, and see the firstlings of a young 
man's beard, and the maidenly bloom blushing over the girl's fair cheek. 
I love to see the pure eyes beaming with joy and goodness, to see the un- 
conscious joy of such young souls, impatient of restraint, and longing for 
the heaven which we fashion here. 

So have I seen in early May, among the New England hills, the morning 
springing in the sky, and gradually thinning out the stars that hedge 
about the cradle of day ; and all cool and fresh and lustrous came the 
morning light, and a few birds commenced their songs, prophets of very 
many more ; and ere the sun was fairly up, you saw the pinky buds upon 
the apple trees, and scented the violets in the morning air, and thought 
of what a fresh and lordly day was coming up the eastern sky. 



OUT OF THE OLD HOUSE, NANCY. 




WILL M. CARLETON. 



UT of the old house Nancy — moved up 
into the new ; 

rAll the hurry and worry are just as 
good as through ; 
Only a bounden duty remains for you 

and I, 
And that's to stand on the door-step 
here and bid the old house good-bye. 



"What a shell we've lived in these nineteen or 

twenty years ! 
Wonder it hadn't smashed in and tumbled 

about our ears ; 
Wonder it stuck together and answered till 

to-day, 
But every individual log was put up here to 

stay. 



698 



OUT OF THE OLD HOUSE, NANCY. 



Yes, a deal has happened to make this old 


Here the old house will stand, but not as it 


house dear : 


stood bafore ; • 


Christenin's, funerals, weddin's — what haven't 


Winds will whistle through it and rains will 


we had here ? 


flood the floor ; 


Not a log in this old buildin' but its memo- 


And over the hearth once blazing, the snow 


ries has got — 


drifts oft will pile, 


And not a nail in this old floor but touches 


And the old thing will seem to be a mournin' 


a tender spot. 


all the while. 




Out of the old house, Nancy — moved up into 

the new ; 
All the hurry and worry is just as good as 

through ; 
But I tell you a thing right here, that I ain't 

ashamed to say : 
There's precious things in this old house we 

never can take away. 



Fare you well old house ! you're nought that 

can feel or see, 
But you seem like a human being — a dear 

old friend to me ; 
And we never will have a better home, if my 

opinion stands, 
Until we commence a keepin' house in the 

" house not made with hands.'' 



THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. 



699 



THE MAPLE-TREE 




HEN on the world's' first harvest- 
day, 
The forest trees before the Lord 
Laid down their autumn offerings 
Of fruit, in golden sunshine stored, 

I The Maple only, of them all, 
t Before the world's great harvest 
King 
With empty hands and silent stood — 
She had no offering to bring 

For in the early summer time, 
While other trees laid by their board, 

The Maple winged'her fruit with love, 
And sent it daily to the Lord. 

There ran through all the leafy wood 

A murmur and a scornful smile 
But silent still the Maple stood, 

And looked unmoved to God the while. 



And then, while fell on earth a hush 
So great it seemed like death to be, 

From his white throne the mighty Lord 
Stooped down and kissed the Maple- tree. 

At that swift kiss there sudden thrilled 
In every nerve, through every vein, 

An ecstasy of joy so great 

It seemed almost akin to pain. 

And there before the forest trees, 

Blushing and pale by tarns she stood ; 

In every leaf, now red and gold, 
Transfigured by the kiss of God. 

And still when comes the autumn time, 
And on the hills the harvest lies, 

Blushing the Maple-tree recalls 
Her life's one beautiful surprise. 



THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 



nm* 




ye hear the children weeping, 
my brothers, 
Ere the sorrow comes with years ? 
They are leaning their young heads 
against their mothers, — 
And that cannot stop their tears. 
The young lambs are bleating in the 

meadows, 
The young birds are chirping in the nest, 
young fawns are playing with the sha- 
dows, 
The young flowers are blowing toward 
the west — 
But the young, young children, my bro- 
thers, 
They are weeping bitterly ! — 
They are weeping in the playtime of the 
others, 
In the country of the free. 



Th 



Do you question the young children in their 
sorrow, 

Why their tears are falling so ? — 
The old man may weep for his to-morrow, 

Which is lost in Long Ago — 
The old tree is leafless in the forest — 

The old year is ending in the frost — 
The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest — 

The old hope is hardest to be lost : 
But the young, young children, my bro- 
thers, 

Do you ask them why they stand 
Weeping sore before the bosoms of their 
mothers, 

In our happy Fatherland ? 

They look up with their pale and sunken 
faces, 
And their looks are sad to see, 



700 



THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. 



For the man's hoary anguish draws and 



Down the cheeks of infancy ; 
*' Your old earth," they say, " is very dreary ;" 
"Our young feet," they say, "are very 
weak! 
Few paces have we taken, yet are weary ; 

Our grave-rest is very far to seek. 
Ask the aged why they weep, and not the 
children, 
For the outside earth is cold, 
And we young ones stand without, in our 
bewildering, 
And the graves are for the old." 

*'True," say the children, "it may happen 

That we die before our time. 
Little Alice died last year — the grave is 
shapen 
Like a snowball, in the rime. 
We looked into the pit prepared to take her — 
Was no room for any work in the close 
clay: 
From the sleep wherein she lieth none will 
wake her, 
Crying, "Get up, little Alice! it is day." 
If you listen by that grave, in sun and 
shower, 
With your ear down, little Alice never 
cries ! 
Could we see her face, be sure we should not 
know her, 
For the smile has time for growing in 
her eyes ! 
And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled 
in 
The shroud, by the kirk chime ! 
•'It is good when it happens," say the children, 
" That we die before our time." 

Alas, alas, the children ! they are seeking 

Death in life, as best to have ! 
They are binding up their hearts away from 
breaking, 
With a cerement from the grave. 
Go out, children, from the mine and from the 
city; 
Sing out, children, as the little thrushes 
do;- 



Pluck you handfuls of the meadow-cowslips 

pretty ; 




Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let 
them through ! 
But they answer, " Are your cowslips of the 
meadows 
Like our weeds anear the mine? 
Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal- 
shadows, 
From your pleasures fair and fine ! 

" For oh," say the children, "we are weary, 

And we cannot run or leap ; 
If we cared for any meadows, it were merely 

To drop down in them and sleep. 
Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping ; 

We fall upon our faces, trying to go ; 
And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping, 

The reddest flower would look as pale 
as snow. 
For, all day, we drag our burden tiring 

Through the coal-dark underground ; 
Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron 

In the factories, round and round. 

" For, all day, the wheels are droning, turn- 
ing— 
Their wind comes in our faces, — 
Till our hearts turn — our heads, with pulses 
burning', 
And the walls turn in their places ; 



THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. 



701 



Turns the sky in the high window blank 
and reeling ; 
Turns the long light that drops adown 
the wall ; 
Turn the black flies that crawl along the 
ceiling ; 
All are turning, all the day, and we 
with all. 
And all day, the iron wheels are droning ; 

And sometimes we could pray, 
' ye wheels,' (breaking out in a mad moan- 

in g) 
1 Stop ! be silent for to-day !' " 

Ay ! be silent ! Let them hear each other 
breathing 
For a moment, mouth to mouth ; 
Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh 
wreathing 
Of their tender human youth ! 
Let them feel that this cold metallic motion 

Is not all the life God fashions or reveals ; 
• Let them prove their living souls against the 
notion 
That they live in you, or under you, 
wheels ! 
Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward, 
Grinding life down from its mark ; 
And the children's souls, which God is calling 
sunward, 
Spin on blindly in the dark. 

Now tell the poor young children, my 
brothers, 
To look up to him and pray ; 
So the Blessed One, who blesseth all the 
others, 
Will bless them another day. 
They answer, "Who is God that He should 
hear us, 
While the rushing of the iron wheels is 
stirred ? 
When we sob aloud, the human creatures 
near us 
Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a 
word; 
And we hear not (for the wheels in their 
resounding) 
Strangers speaking at the door : 



Is it likely God, with angels singing round 
him, 
Hears our weeping any more ? 

" Two words, indeed, of praying we remember, 

And at midnight's hour of harm, 
' Our Father,' looking upward in the chamber, 

We say softly for a charm. 
We know no other words, except ' Our Father,' 
And we think that, in some pause of 
angel's song, 
God may pluck them with the silence sweet 
to gather, 
And hold both within His right hand 
which is strong. 
'Our Father!' If He heard us, He would 
surely 
(For they call Him good and mild) 
Answer, smiling down the steep world very 
purely, 
' Come and rest with me, my child.' 

"But, no!" say the children, weeping faster, 

"He is speechless as a stone; 
And they tell us, of His image is the master 

Who commands us to work on. 
Go to!" say the children; "up in Heaven, 
Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all 
we find. 
Do not mock us ; grief has made us unbe- 
lieving ; 
We look up for God, but tears have made 
us blind." 
Do you hear the children weeping and dis- 
proving, 
0, my brothers, what ye preach ? 
For God's possible is taught by his world's 
loving, 
And the children doubt of each. 

And well may the children weep before you ! 

They are weary ere they run ; 
They have never seen the sunshine, nor the 
glory 
Which is brighter than the sun : 
They know the grief of man, without his 
wisdom ; 
They sink in man's despair, without his 
calm; 
Are slaves, without the liberty in Chriptdom; 



702 



THE MINISTRY OF ANGELS. 



Are martyrs, by the pang without the 
palm; 
Are worn, as if with age, yet unretrievingly 

The blessing of its memory cannot keep ; 
Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly : 

Let them weep ! let them weep ! 

They look up, with their pale and sunken 



And their look is dread to see, 
For they mind you of their angels in their 
places, 



With eyes turned on Deity ; — 
"How long," they say, "how long, cruel 
nation, 
Will you stand to move the world, on a 
child's heart — 
Stifle down with a mailed heel its palliation, 
And tread onward to your throne amid 
the mart? » 

Our blood splashes upward, gold-heaper, 

And your purple shows your path ! 

But the child's sob curses deeper in the silence, 

Than the strong man in his wrath!" 



A WOMAN'S LOVE. 




AN knows not love — such love as 

woman feels. 
In him it is a vast devouring flame — 
Resistless fed — in its own strength 

consumed. 
In woman's heart it enters step by 

step, [ray 

Concealed, disowned, until its gentler 



Breathes forth a light, illumining her world. 
Man loves not for repose ; he woos the 

flower 
To wear it as the victor's trophied crown;. 
Whilst woman, when she glories in her love, 
More like the dove, in noiseless constancy, 
Watches the nest of her affection till 
'Tis shed upon the tomb of him she loves. 



THE MINISTRY OF ANGELS! 



EDMUND SPENSER. 




ND is there care in heaven ? And is 
there love 
In heavenly spirits to these crea- 
tures base, 
That may compassion of their evils 
move? , 
There is: — else much more wretched 
were the case 
Of men than beasts : but the exceeding 

grace 
Of highest God ! that loves his creatures so 
And all his workes with mercy doth em- 
brace, 
That blessed angels he sends to and fro, 



To serve to wicked man, to serve his wicked 
foe! 

How oft do they their silver bowers leave, 
To come to succour us that succour want ; 
How oft do they with golden pinions cleave 
The flitting skyes, like flying pursuivant, 
Against fowle feendes to ayd us militant ! 

They for us fight, they watch, and dewly ward, 
And their bright squadrons round about us 
plant ; 

And all for love, and nothing for reward • 

0, why should heavenly God to men have 
such regard ! 



A MOTHER'S LOVE. 



V03 




THE LAND WHEEE JESUS TOILED. 



THE MINISTRY OF JESUS. 



EDWARD BICKEESTETH. 




Igj^jROM his lips 

Truth, limpid, without error, flowed. 

Disease 
Fled from his touch. Pain heard 

him and was not. 
Despair smiled in his presence. 
Devils knew, 
And trembled. In the Omnipotence of faith, 
Unintermittent, indefectible, 



Leaning upon his Father's might, he bent 
All nature to his will. The tempest sank, 
He whispering, into waveless calm. The bread 
Given from his hands fed thousands, and to 

spare. 
The stormy waters, as the solid rock 
Were pavement for his footstep. Death itself, 
With vain reluctancies yielded its prey 
To the stern mandate of the Prince of Life. 



A MOTHER'S LOVE. 




MOTHER'S love ! oh, soft and low 
As the tremulous notes of the ring- 

r dove's call, 

Or the murmur of waters that 
gently flow 
On the weary heart those accents fall ! 

A mother's love ! the sacred thought 



Unseals the hidden fount of tears, 
As if the frozen waters caught 
The purple light of earlier years. 

A mother's love ! oh, 't is the dew 

Which nourisheth life's drooping flowers, 

And fitteth them to bloom anew 

'Mid fairer scenes — in brighter bowers. 



704 SHOOTING PORPOISES. 



SHOOTING PORPOISES. 



T. DE WITT TALMAGE. 




JANG, bang ! went the gun at the side of the San Jacinto, after we 
had been two days out at sea on the way to Savannah. We were 
startled at such a strange sound on shipboard, and asked : 
" What are they doing ? " 

A few innocents of the deep, for the purpose of breathing or 
sport, had lifted themselves above the wave, and a gentleman found 
amusement in' tickling them with shot. As the porpoise rolled over 
wounded, and its blood colored the wave, the gunner was congratulated by 
his comrades on the execution made. 

It may have been natural dullness tnat kept us from appreciating the 
grandeur of the deed. Had the porpoise impeded the march of the San 
Jacinto, I would have said : 
" Dose it with lead ! " 

If there had been a possibility that by coming up to breathe it would 
endanger our own supply of air, I would have said : 
" Save the passengers and kill the dolphins ! " 

If the marksman had harpooned a whale there would have been the 
oil for use, or had struck down a gull, in its anatomy, he might have ad- 
vanced science. If he had gunpowdered the cook it might, in small quan- 
tities, have made him animated ; or the stewardess, there would have been 
the fun of seeing her jump. But, alas for the cruel disposition of the man 
who could shoot a porpoise ! 

There is no need that we go to sea to find the same style of gun- 
ning. 

After tea the parlor is full of romp. The children are playing " Ugly 
Mug," and " Bear," and " Tag," and " Yonder stands a lovely creature." 
Papa goes in among the playing dolphins with the splash and dignity of a 
San Jacinto. He cries, " Jim, get my slippers ! " " Mary, roll up the 
stand ! " " Jane, get me the evening newspaper ! " " Sophia, go to bed I " 
" Harry, quit that sicker ! " " Stop that confounded noise, all of you ! " 
The fun is over. The water is quiet. The dolphins have turned their 
ast somersault. Instead of getting down on his hands and knees, 
and being as lively as a "bear," as any of them, he goes to shooting 
porpoises. 



SHOOTING PORPOISES. 



705 



Here is a large school of famous pretension, professors high-salaried, ap- 
paratus complete, globes on which you can travel round the world in five 
minutes, spectroscopes, and Ley den jars, and chromatropes, and electric 
batteries, No one disputed its influence or its well-earned fame. The 
masters and misses that graduate come out equipped for duty. Long may 
it stand the adornment of the town. But a widow whose sons were 
killed in the war opens a school in her basement. She has a small 
group of little children whose tuition is her sole means of subsistence. 




SHOOTING PORPOISES. 



The high school looks with sharp eyes on the rising up of the low school 
The big institution has no respect whatever for little institutions. The 
parents patronizing the widow must be persuaded that they are wasting 
their children's time in that basement. Women have no right to be 
widows or have their sons killed in the war. From the windows of the 
high school the arrows are pointed at the helpless establishment in the 
corner. " Bang !" goes the artillery of scorn till one of the widow's 
scholars has gone. " Bang!" go the guns from the deck of the great edu- 
cational craft till the innovating institution turns over and disappears. 
Well done ! Used it up quick ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! Shooting porpoises I 



706 THE DAY IS D0N E. 



Grab, Chokeham & Co. have a large store. They sell more goods 
than any in town. They brag over their income and the size of the glass 
in their show-window. They have enough clerks on light salaries to man 
a small navy. Mr. Needham, an honest man with small capital, opens a 
store in the same business. One morning Mr. Grab says to his partner, 
Mr. Chokeham : " Do you know a young chap has opened a store down 
on the other end of this block in the same business ?" 

" Has, eh ? We will settle him very speedily." Forthwith it is 
understood that if at the small store a thing is sold for fifty cents, at the 
large store you can get it for forty-five. That is less than cost, but Grab & 
Chokeham are an old house, and can stand it, and Needham cannot. Small 
store's stock of goods is getting low, and no money to replenish. Small 
store's rent is due, and nothing with which to pay it. One day small store 
is crowded with customers, but they have come to the sheriff's sale. The 
big fish has swallowed the little one. Grab & Chokeham roll on the floor 
of counting-room in excess of merriment. Needham goes home to cry his 
eyes out. Big store has put an end to small store. Plenty of room for both, 
but the former wanted all the sea to itself. No one had any right to 
show his commercial head in those waters. " Pop !" " Pop !" Shooting 
porpoises ! 

Is it not time that the world stopped wasting its ammunition ? If 
you want to shoot, there is the fox of cruel cunning, and the porcupine of 
fretfulness, and the vulture of filth, and the weasel of meanness, and the 
bear of religious grumbling. Oh, for more hunters who can " draw a bead " 
so as every time to send plump into the dust a folly of sin ! But let alone 
the innocent things of land and deep. The world is wide enough for us all. 
Big newspaper, have mercy on the little Great merchants, spare the weak. 
Let the San Jacinto plow on its majestic way and pass unhurt the porpoises. 



THE DA Y IS DONE. 



H. W. LONGFELLOW. 




^HE day is done, and the darkness 
I Falls from the wing of Night, 
As a feather is wafted downward 
From an eagle in his flight. 

I see the lights of the village 

Gleam through the rain and the mist ; 



And a feeling of sadness comes o'er m% 
That my soul cannot resist ; 

A feeling of sadness and longing, 

That is not akin to pain, 
And resembles sorrow only 

As the mist resembles the raia. 



THE DAY IS DONE. 



707 



a i ' 

Come, read to me some poem, 


Who, through long days of labor, 


Some simple and heartfelt lay, 


And nights devoid of ease, 


That shall soothe this restless feeling, 


Still heard in his soul the music 


And banish the thoughts of day : 


Of wonderful melodies. 


Not from the grand old masters, 


Such songs have power to quiet 


Not from the bards sublime, 


The restless pulse of care, 


Whose distant footsteps echo 


And come like the benediction 


Through the corridors of time. 


That follows after 'prayer. 


For, like strains of martial music, 


Then read from the treasured volume 


Their mighty thoughts suggest 


The poem of thy choice ; 


Life's endless toil and endeavor ; 


And lend to the rhyme of the poet 


And to-night I long for rest. 


The beauty of thy voice. 


Read from some humbler poet, 


And the night shall be filled with music, 


Whose songs gushed from his heart, 


And the cares that infest the day 


As showers from the clouds of summer, 


Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, 


Or tears from the eyelids start ; 


And as silently steal away. 





"Words of genuine eloquence, spoken, 
Thrill the passing hour ; 
Written, they inspire the ages." 



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